


Tome and Shield

by probablylostrightnow, servantofclio



Series: Rory and Simon Trevelyan [1]
Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Agender Character, Alphabet, Asexual Character, Future Cassandra Pentaghast/Trevelyan, Future Dorian Pavus/Trevelyan, Gen, Twins
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-30
Updated: 2016-07-05
Packaged: 2018-04-12 03:29:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 57,044
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4463762
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/probablylostrightnow/pseuds/probablylostrightnow, https://archiveofourown.org/users/servantofclio/pseuds/servantofclio
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rory and Simon are Trevelyan twins, separated at a young age but still joined by a strong bond. When they attend Divine Justinia's Conclave together, both are marked as Heralds of Andraste, and their fate becomes linked with the fate of Thedas. An alphabet fic tracing the story of the twins from their childhood to the final closing of the Breach.</p>
<p>(Game content begins in Chapter 10.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A is for Awake and Adventure

**Author's Note:**

> A note on gender and pronouns: Rory does not identify as male or female and uses the words they/them/their to refer to themselves. In the early chapters, Rory has not figured out how to explain this to Simon, who thinks of Rory as male and refers to Rory as "him." Once Rory comes out to Simon, both twins' accounts use they/them/their for Rory.

**Simon: A is for Awake**

“Connie,” Simon called, trying to get his older sister’s attention. Constance was usually willing to play with them, even though she was almost grown up, and everyone had been so busy lately. There was going to be a big party for Irene, who _was_ grown up, way too much to play with little brothers. She spent all her time in Father’s office or going to court or other things. It was going to be a very boring party, Simon was sure of it, and now Constance seemed to be spending all her time doing boring party stuff for Mother and Irene, too. He tried again as she swished by, arms full of fabric. “Connie Connie Connie!” He ran after her and reached out to grab at her skirts.

Constance whirled and glared down at him. “Simon, I’m busy, what do you _want_ — ugh, Maker, how did you both get so grubby?”

Simon looked over his shoulder at Rory, right behind him as usual. Rory blinked owlishly up at Constance, and Simon turned back to give her his best smile. “We went out in the stableyard!” he said. It had been all muddy because of all the rains lately. “There are puppies, come see!”

“I _can’t_ ,” she said. “Who let you out there to play, anyway?”

Simon shrugged. It had been his idea, but it hadn’t been too hard to get Rory to come away from the books for once, and then there had been _puppies_ , and they’d both had fun rolling around in the straw with them.

Constance sighed and tried to keep her skirts and her armful out of Simon’s reach. “Go and get cleaned up, or I’ll have to call—”

“What is going on here? Constance, I told you to take those to your sister’s room.”

“I was going to, Mother,” Constance said, as their mother swept up with a frown on her face, and Rory shifted around behind Simon. “But the boys...”

“Yes, I see,” Mother said. She looked much crosser than usual, and only got crosser when Simon tried to smile sheepishly and cover up the worst of the dirt on his tunic. “What were you two doing? Rolling in the mud?”

“Only a little,” Rory whispered, so Simon hurried to add,

“There are puppies in the stables, Mother!”

“Constance, go,” Mother said, and their sister dashed off. Mother fixed them both with a hard look and said sternly, “I thought you two boys were more than old enough to behave yourselves properly, especially with such an important occasion coming up. Your sister only turns eighteen once, you know, and we have invited the very best to her ball. Why, there will be eligible young men here from all over the Free Marches, and here the two of you are, looking like stable boys!”

“We were in the stables,” Simon pointed out, not sure what was wrong with looking like a stable boy.

“And you _smell_ like it,” Mother said, wrinkling her nose. “If you were going to behave like common louts, you might at least have the decency not to come out here to the hall and disgrace the Trevelyan name.”

Simon wilted; he hadn’t meant that, not at all, and he couldn’t see what harm it did the Trevelyan name to play with puppies in the stables. They were Trevelyan puppies, after all, weren’t they? He reached back and Rory promptly grabbed his hand as Mother clapped her hands, calling over one of the servants. “We shall simply have to get both of you out from underfoot, since I cannot trust you to behave yourselves.”

The servant took Simon’s other hand, as mother directed, and hauled both of the twins back to their rooms.

An hour later, Simon found himself scrubbed and changed into fresh clothes and bundled into a carriage headed for their aunt’s house. “I don’t want to go to Aunt Eileen’s,” he grumbled.

Rory didn’t complain. Rory hardly ever complained, but this time he just gave Simon a look. The footman in the carriage with them was staring over their heads, paying no attention, so Simon sighed and scowled at the carriage seat. A moment later, Rory said, “It won’t be bad. She’s nice.”

Simon slouched down further in the seat. Aunt Eileen wasn’t so bad, but she was odd, and she didn’t have stables or puppies, and her house was full of things they weren’t supposed to touch. Aunt Eileen was Mother’s older sister, or maybe a cousin—Simon always forgot which. She had grey hair and no husband or children of her own. She didn’t even have many servants. She lived alone in a house full of old stuff, which Simon thought must be very dull, to have no one to talk to or play with. He always had Rory, even when their older brothers and sisters were being mean or boring.

Aunt Eileen’s butler let them inside, and there was Aunt Eileen herself, in a purple dress, sitting at a little table with three cups and that tea that smelled like flowers and grass. Simon drank the tea obediently while Aunt Eileen asked about their lessons. Rory brightened up as she asked questions; he liked talking about lessons, but Simon’s mind wandered. He’d been right there with Rory and their tutor, after all. He stared around the room, trying to figure out what the coats of arms were on the faded banners on the wall.

“And what about you, Simon?”

Simon almost dropped the teacup, and did spill a little tea into the saucer. He pulled his hands away hastily, hoping his aunt wouldn’t notice. Mother would have been annoyed. “What?” he said.

Rory nudged his shoulder. Aunt Eileen was almost smiling. “How do you like your lessons?”

“Oh.” He looked down at the saucer. “They’re all right.” Lessons were dull, mostly, time spent staring at black marks on a page that sometimes were words and sometimes were just marks. Rory helped, but it was still slow and mostly boring.

“You like our geography lessons,” Rory put in, and Simon shrugged. That was true enough. Maps were easier than books.

“Maps, eh?” said Aunt Eileen. She reached out and rang a small bell. Her butler came in. After a brief conversation, he went out again and came back with a huge brass tube, and when he unlatched it, it turned out to be full of maps. “Let’s see what you’ve been learning,” she said, and Simon and Rory both leaned forward to look at the maps, Rory squinting and bending over for a closer look.

The maps were crisp and had to be weighted down, and were drawn all over with black lines and blue and red. Simon was curious in spite of himself; this was much easier to look at than books. They pored over the maps for a long time. Simon and Rory talked about what they had learned about Orlais and the Free Marches, and Aunt Eileen had been to places like Jader and Starkhaven and even Val Royeaux. Eventually the butler brought sandwiches, and they just kept looking at maps while they ate, which Mother would never let them do, because of crumbs. And somehow hours had passed, and it was dark outside the windows, and Aunt Eileen said they should sleep in the guest room.

That was strange. They’d visited Aunt Eileen before, but never slept at her house. Simon thought maybe he had really messed something up this time, but he didn’t know why. There was a change of clothes for both of them, somehow, but only one bed, a big one with a tall post at each corner. The bed was so big that Simon could hardly even tell Rory was on the other side of the bed. Simon lay awake for a while after the servant took the candles away, staring up into the darkness.

“I told you Aunt Eileen was nice,” Rory whispered.

“I know,” Simon whispered back. It wasn’t like he’d argued with Rory or anything. “Tonight was kind of fun,” he admitted.

“Do you think we’ll stay here another night, too?”

“I dunno,” Simon said. Mother probably wasn’t that mad at them, right? And Irene’s boring grown-up party couldn’t last forever, could it?

There was a rustle as Rory squirmed around getting comfortable. “Good night,” he whispered.

“Good night, Rory,” Simon whispered back.

Simon woke up to a crash and gasped, trying to figure out where he was. The room felt all wrong somehow. Only when there was a flash of light through the shutters, and another rumble, did he remember about staying at Aunt Eileen’s. He thought he heard a noise coming from the other side of the bed, and rolled over to face it.

“Rory, are you awake?”

It was quiet for a moment, but Simon listened hard, and after a little while Rory said, “We’re supposed to be asleep.”

“It’s too _loud_ ,” Simon said. The rain was starting to rattle against the shuttered window. Simon didn’t like storms very much. He wasn’t _scared_ , not really, he wasn’t a baby like their brother Alroy said, but he didn’t _like_ them.

“It’s only thunder,” Rory said.

“I know that,” Simon grumbled.

“I heard it coming,” Rory said quietly. “The last one was the loudest.”

Simon frowned into the dark. “You were awake already? What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” Rory said, but Simon listened to him breathing, a little too fast.

“Was it funny dreams again?” he tried.

“They’re not funny,” Rory mumbled.

“Not funny like that.” Simon wriggled over and reached out, and started patting around the other side of the bed.

“Ow!”

“Sorry!” Simon hastily moved his hand away from Rory’s face and patted his shoulder instead. “What was it?”

There was a short silence. Simon patted Rory’s shoulder again and smiled, even though Rory couldn’t see him either. Rory didn’t like talking about his dreams, since that time Alroy said they were stupid dreams, but the dreams always bothered Rory until he did say something. Alroy didn’t know anything, anyway, he wasn’t that old, and he wasn’t nearly as smart as Rory. “We were having lessons,” Rory said finally. “But the lessons were strange, the geography books were all wrong, and I think all the books were in Tevene instead of Common...”

Simon made a face. “That sounds even worse than usual.”

“I like lessons,” Rory said. “And there was a strange person teaching us, and then he tried to grab us and take us somewhere, so I ran away down the hall, but the servants were all wrong too, and the light was all green...”

“What about me?” Simon asked curiously.

“You must have run the other way. I didn’t know where you were anymore...”

“I ran away so the bad person would chase me instead of you,” Simon said firmly. “And then I’d push him into a closet and shut the door and come back and find you.”

Rory giggled a little, and Simon thought he was probably going to be all right now. He let go of Rory’s shoulder and started to wiggle back to his own side of the bed, but Rory grabbed his arm before he could get away. “This bed is too big,” Rory said in a rush.

“I know, it’s weird,” Simon agreed. At home they each had their own bed, even though they shared a room.

They were both quiet for a while. Outside, the rain was getting quieter, too. It was still tapping on the window, but the thunder had faded into the distance. “The storm’s not so bad now,” Rory whispered.

“Yeah,” Simon said. He was feeling better about the storm, and starting to feel sleepy again. “No more dreams, right?”

“No more dreams,” Rory agreed. Simon listened, trying to make sure Rory was falling asleep all right, but before long he was asleep himself.

 

**Rory: A is for Adventure**

Simon crashed through the doors to the library. In his arms, he held a wrapped parcel larger than his head. “There you are, Rory!” he exclaimed. “Guess what I…” He was distracted by the open book on the table in front of Rory. “Why are you reading that? We don’t even have lessons today.”

“I _like_ reading it,” Rory said, with a bit of a pout. They had been stuck on the line, “Before the might of the seven Magisters Sidereal…” Simon had interrupted their attempt to sound out “sidereal.”

“But you can read the Chant anytime! We only get to have Summerday once a year!”

Preparations for the Summerday festival had consumed the manor for several days. The ovens had burned day and night, messengers rushed to and from the house with engraved invitations, and seamstresses made frantic alterations to dresses and coats. The overwhelming bustle of activity had driven Rory to the quiet of the library.

“And I’ve got something even better!” Simon continued with glee. “Look what I found!” Simon pulled aside the wrappings, revealing a pair of drab beige tunics marked with the blue and gold bars of House Trevelyan.

It took a moment for Rory to realize what they were looking at. “Servants’ clothes?”

“Servants’ clothes for us!” Simon announced gleefully. “Quick, get changed into yours.” He bent and began unlacing his breeches.

“Why?” Rory asked. Summerday was still a day away, and there wasn’t a masquerade at Summerday anyway. What was Simon thinking?

“Because we can go anywhere in them! No one looks at servants. Aren’t you tired of being cooped up here?” Simon continued undressing while he was talking. Stripped down to his smallclothes, he began roving through the library, looking for a place to put his clothes.

“Not really,” Rory said. “And everyone knows who we are. The clothes won’t fool anyone.”

Simon shook his head violently, dropping his clothes on Father’s desk and closing the roll-top over them with a clatter. “They’re all too busy to look! We can just slip out the servant’s door and go to the market. Or to the docks! Come on, Rory, let’s go!”

Rory was pretty sure that this was a bad idea, but didn’t want to argue with Simon. He looked so eager, and if he didn’t get his way he would sulk for days. “All right,” Rory said. “But we have to be back by noon so they don’t miss us.” They shucked off their own clothes. After a moment’s consideration, they opened Father’s desk, stacked their clothes neatly next to Simon’s, and then gently closed the desk.

Simon’s grin was radiant. “I promise we’ll be back by noon. Now get your tunic on!”

Simon was right.The lone guard at the servant’s entrance waved the twins out the gate with barely a glance. The streets were a maelstrom of activity, people just blurs of color rushing this way and that, likewise ignoring the twins. Rory had been off the grounds many times, but always in the company of at least one adult, usually a parent or their tutor. With only Simon for company, the street seemed suddenly unfamiliar and foreboding, the houses looming above him somehow taller.

Simon tugged at Rory’s hand. “Come on!” He drew Rory down the street toward the market, and Rory allowed Simon to lead them, still peering about with a mixture of fascination and apprehension.

If the streets were rivers of activity, the market was the sea where they met. The space was jammed full of servants and nobles buying food, fabric, and other provisions for the upcoming festivities. Rory was repeatedly jostled as Simon led them into the midst of the crowd. Most of the crowd stood much taller than them, although a few servant children darted through the market square, seeming at ease there. Rory held tight to Simon’s hand, wishing that they had sought out a corner to observe from instead. No use trying to say so to Simon; there was no way he’d hear Rory over the tumult.

Just as Rory thought that, Simon squeezed their hand and pulled them closer. He leaned over and hissed in their ear, “Look, over there! They’re Grey Wardens!”

Rory’s eyes followed the arc of Simon’s pointing finger and arrived on a pair of armored figures talking with a fishmonger. Nothing about them struck Rory as particularly unusual. Leaning in toward Simon, Rory asked, “How do you know?”

“See those, uh, shoulder pieces on their armor?” Simon whispered.

Rory squinted. “I think they’re called spaulders? But I can’t see them very well.”

“There are griffons engraved on the spadders. The griffons are a symbol of the Grey Wardens.”

“I know that!” Rory protested. _Simon_ was the one who didn’t always pay attention in lessons. They squinted to try to make out the engraving, but it was no use at this distance. “Can we get closer?”

Simon needed no convincing. He began working his way through the crowd, Rory in his wake. They had closed about a third of the distance between themselves and their goal when the Wardens accepted a package from the fish seller and started walking briskly toward the edge of the market. _So much for seeing the engraving_ , Rory thought, disappointed, then realized that Simon was yanking on their hand.

“What are you doing?” Rory asked, but their voice was swallowed up in the clamor. Simon was pulling them toward the edge of the crowd. Was he planning to follow the Grey Wardens? That struck Rory as a terrible idea. They couldn’t keep up with grown men. Rory pictured the two of them lost in an unfamiliar part of town. Or what if the Grey Wardens saw them and didn’t like being followed?

At the edge of the square, Simon took cover behind a warehouse and leaned out to look down the street the Wardens had taken. The noise was a bit less here, and Rory hastily said, “Simon, we shouldn’t be doing this. Let’s look around the market –“

“Come on, or we’ll lose them!” Simon said, and dragged Rory into the street. He hurried along, ducking behind pillars and doors to keep out of sight of the two retreating figures. Rory gamely attempted to follow Simon’s lead.

The Wardens turned down an alley, and the twins crouched behind a barrel to watch. “This is too dangerous,” Rory whispered to Simon.

“Look, we’ll just follow them to the opening of the alley and see where they’re going. Then we can go back.”

Rory’s stomach felt clenched tight with iron bands, but they made no further protest as they followed Simon to the corner. Simon leaned around the corner to see the alley, and suddenly, with a rush of movement, strong hands grabbed hold of both him and Rory. As Rory tried to figure out what was going on, there was a flash of metal, and a gruff voice said, “Make no sound, now, or it will go the worse for you.”

Rory looked at the jagged knife held a few inches from Simon’s throat and stayed very quiet. Even Simon, for once, held his tongue.

“Let’s get them out of the street,” the knife holder said to the man holding Rory, and they dragged the twins into the alley. Rory squinted to make out the Wardens’ features. Simon’s captor was very tall, with a stern demeanor, a full black beard, and coloring close to Rory’s own. The man holding Rory was smaller and paler, with longer hair running in strands down the side of his face and a wispy beard. Both men were well-armored and bristled with weaponry. _I knew this was a bad idea_.

“Did someone give you coin or food to follow us and report back?” the tall man asked harshly.

“No, sers!” Simon said. “No one gave us anything! We just… my brother and I, we’ve heard stories about the Grey Wardens. We just wanted to see you for real.”

_Brother’s not right_ , Rory thought. But they’d never figured out how to explain that to Simon, and they certainly weren’t going to bring it up now.

The full-bearded man brandished his knife. “Who are you reporting back to about us?”

“No one!” Simon insisted. “Nobody even knows we’re here.” Rory winced. _I don’t think you should have told him that._

Rory’s captor sighed and spoke for the first time. “I think he’s telling the truth.”

“So it seems,” his companion agreed, looking the twins over. “If we release you, will you raise an alarm? Alert the guard?”

That sounded like an excellent idea to Rory, but Simon said, “No, ser, we won’t.”

The Wardens released their grip on Simon and Rory. The darker one sheathed his knife and nodded to both children. “I am sorry to have treated you harshly. We Wardens have many enemies, and when we saw you following us, our first thought was that you were in their employ.”

“Many enemies? But you’re heroes!” Simon said. “Who would wish you harm?” Rory remembered their father’s tone when he’d spoken off the Wardens. He doubted Father wished them harm, but he might not take it amiss. Rory decided this was another thing not to mention.

“Heroes to some, perhaps. But to many, darkspawn are only fables, while we are all too inconveniently real.”

“Have you fought darkspawn, then?” Simon asked eagerly.

“I have.” The tall man’s voice was grim. “But that is no tale for children.”

“Please tell us,” Simon said. Rory silently disagreed. From the tone of the Warden’s voice, this seemed like a story they didn’t want to hear. Rory thought making a quick escape before the Wardens changed their mind was a better idea.

The Warden just shook his head sternly, but Rory’s erstwhile captor spoke up. “I can tell you about fighting darkspawn.” Simon leaned against the wall and looked up at him in anticipation. “I and four other Wardens were sent to the Western Approach after the miners there broke through into darkspawn-infested tunnels. It was late summer, and the sun was brutally hot overhead. We had to keep to the shade or our armor would roast us alive. As we drew close to the mine, we all noticed that it had grown very quiet. No birds or insects made a sound. We started climbing down the ladders into the mine…”

The Warden continued his story with the darkspawn surging out of the tunnels above and below them and his team fighting a bloody defensive battle to hold them off. He was a good storyteller; Simon was raptly attentive, and Rory mostly stopped worrying that the Wardens were going to murder them. The other Warden silently watched his companion speak, the ghost of an indulgent smile creeping across his face.

According to the tale, the fight with the darkspawn went on for hours. (Rory would have thought that they would get too tired to keep fighting. Probably Grey Wardens were tougher than the people they knew, though.) Eventually, the storytelling Warden had realized that a trio of darkspawn were directing the movement of the others. Slipping behind them, he had dispatched them with three quick sword strokes. At that, the darkspawn attack had become ragged and disorganized, and the Wardens drove them back.

“What happened then?” Simon asked eagerly. “Did you go after them?”

The Warden shrugged his shoulders. “We wanted to pursue but could not. We didn’t know how many more might lie in wait, and the important thing was to protect the people of the Approach. Warden Louisa had, ah, some skill in earthworks, and she collapsed the tunnel entrances. We sent craftsmen to board up the mine afterwards, just to be sure.”

Simon’s eyes were shining. “One day I’ll be a Grey Warden like you. And Rory too! Right, Rory?” he asked.

Climbing into a dark hole and being swarmed by darkspawn sounded appealing? Simon must have heard an entirely different story. “I don’t know…” Rory began tentatively.

The grim Warden, who had been quiet all through his comrade’s story, startled Rory by speaking. “It is a hard life, certainly not one to decide on at your age.”

“Can you tell us another story?” Simon asked.

That prompted a smile from both Wardens, but the tall one said, “We must be on our way. We’ve a long way to travel yet today.”

“Surely we have time for a _brief_ story,” the other Warden protested.

Rory’s attention was diverted by the tolling of the Circle bells. They counted carefully to ten, eleven, and then a twelfth stroke. Tugging at Simon’s sleeve, they said urgently, “Those are the noon bells. We have to go back now, or Father will have the guards out looking for us.”

The pale Warden raised his eyebrows. “He’ll have the guards out? Who exactly is your father?”

“Bann Trevelyan, ser,” Simon said warily.

Both Wardens looked aghast. “You’re the _Bann’s_ children?” the other repeated.

The other Warden smirked. “’Grey Wardens kidnap the Trevelyan heirs.’ Won’t that sound lovely on the lips of every town crier in the Free Marches?” he asked.

“We’re not the heirs,” Simon protested.

The taller Warden pursed his lips. “Still, it’s best that you get back home as soon as you can.” He looked them over. “And be sure to return those clothes, or some servant boy will pay the price for your adventure.”

“We will, I promise! And I’ll see you again when I join the Wardens!” Simon said. Without waiting for a response, he set off at a sprint, dragging his twin along.

#

The Grey Wardens watched the twins disappear in the distance. “What do you think, Duncan?” one asked. “Will they join our ranks someday?”

Duncan grimaced. “I’m sure their family will see any such aspirations quelled. The Trevelyans are noted for their devotion to the Chantry. The boys are probably destined for the Templar Order, or some other life of service to the Chantry. The adventurous one may chafe at that, but in the end, most nobles follow the path their family sets for them.”

Duncan’s companion nodded. “The shy one seemed like he’d take well to a quiet life of Chantry service. Probably not a templar, but some sort of bookkeeper or administrator.”

“Well, Riordan,” Duncan said with a sigh, “should we be on our way? If the Trevelyan guardsmen do come looking for those children, I’d prefer they not find us first.”

Riordan nodded in agreement, and the Wardens set out for the city gates.


	2. B is for Burn and Blame

**Rory: B is for Burn**

“Alroy! Come here this instant!” Simon and Rory could hear their father’s voice clearly in the great hall, even though it was coming from somewhere upstairs. His vexed tone suggested that their older brother was due for a tongue-lashing at the very least.

“Let’s go play out by the stables,” Simon suggested, already pushing off his chair.

Rory pumped their head in vigorous agreement. Alroy was going to come downstairs mad. Rory didn’t enjoy being around him when he was in a good mood, but he was a lot worse mad.

“I’ll race you there!” Simon called as he broke into a run.

Rory shouted, “Wait for me!” Simon didn’t wait, darting through the door to the kitchens and nearly colliding with a servant girl. She ducked into the corner as Simon sped by and Rory, legs pumping as fast as they could go, followed after him. By the time Rory reached the stables, panting a little, Simon was already throwing his ball against the stable wall.

“Catch, Rory!” Simon called, tossing the ball in a high arc. Simon knew better than to throw the ball straight at Rory. Well, now and then he forgot, but he was always sorry when the ball hit Rory in the face. Rory moved, squinting, to catch the ball, and then threw it back to Simon. Simon reined it in with ease and tossed it to Rory again.

Rory counted aloud with each catch either twin made. Thoughts of Alroy receded as Rory focused on the motion of the ball back and forth and the feeling of the leather casing striking their arms. Rory took pleasure in reciting the numbers as they got larger, knowing they were right… until they lost throw number thirty-one against the sun, and it bounced off their elbow and dropped to the ground. As Rory bent down to pick up the ball, a shadow fell over them.

Rory looked up into Alroy’s sneering face, so close that they didn’t have to squint to see every detail. A red mark marred one of his cheeks. “You stupid baby. You can’t even catch a ball!” Alroy taunted.

Rory stayed quiet. Showing no reaction was the best way they had found to get Alroy to leave them alone. Arguing or crying just seemed to encourage him.

“You’re not really my brother. You’re just a pile of garbage that Mother and Father found in the street. One day soon, they’re going to put you back out there.” Alroy spat out the words in Rory’s face.

Rory’s lip trembled. At the sight, Alroy grinned broadly. “Father says he’ll give your bed to the dogs. They’re more use than you’ll ever be.”

Something cold closed around Rory’s throat, and they felt moisture on their cheeks. _Stop crying_ , they told themselves to no avail.

“He does _not_ say that, Alroy!” Simon yelled. “What did he have to say to you, huh? Didn’t like what Cook had to tell him?”

Alroy reached out and snatched the ball from Rory’s grasp. When Rory reached after it, Alroy shoved them hard in the shoulder. Rory hit the ground, their butt scraping along the dirt, and let out a wail. No good trying to stop crying now. Maybe someone would come see what was going on.

“You leave him alone, Alroy!” Simon yelled.

Alroy whirled on Simon, who was advancing on his older brother with his hands formed into fists. “Shut up, you little shit,” he snarled, flinging the ball at Simon’s head. Simon deflected the ball away with his left arm. Wincing in pain, he continued a determined advance on Alroy.

As soon as Simon came in reach of Alroy, Alroy grabbed him by the shoulders and half-pushed, half-flung him at the wall of the stables. Simon staggered against the wall with a little yelp.

Rory wailed more loudly. Surely someone was going to come help? But the servants in the yard were paying them no heed, eyes cast down as they labored at their tasks. _I should get up, go to get help_ , Rory thought, but the ground held them in a stubborn embrace.

“I should drown you two in the river,” Alroy said. “I’d be doing the whole family a favor.” Moving toward Simon, he balled his hand into a fist.

 _He’s going to hurt Simon bad. I have to do something._ Rory gritted their teeth to shut out the pain from hitting the ground and struggled to their feet, only to see Alroy raising his hand to hit Simon. Unable to watch, Rory squeezed their eyes shut. _I hate you, Alroy_ , he thought vehemently.

An abrupt surge of warmth blossomed in Rory’s chest and spread through their body. It was oddly comforting, like curling up next to the hearth on a cold winter’s day. It got hotter as it reached his hands and fingers, and then a roaring, crackling sound like flames rushing out from between two logs of firewood drowned out Alroy’s taunts. The sensation and sound seemed somehow familiar even though Rory was sure they had never experienced anything like this. Perhaps in a dream?

“What the Maker?” Alroy yelped, breaking through the sound. Further away, a man screamed.

Rory’s eyes snapped open and they stared, aghast, at the flames were licking up the side of the stables. The roaring noise was louder as the fire spread. Alroy and Simon were staggering back, goggling at Rory. Rory smelled smoke and looked down to see that their hands were smoking and the grass in front of them was smoldering.

_Did I do this? How could I have done this?_

Rory’s heart still felt full of heat. Experimentally, they extended their fingers and thought of the heat making its way through them. Tiny tongues of flame obediently erupted from Rory’s fingertips, surging out a few feet toward Alroy. Alroy gave another yelp and ran. Simon held his ground, staring at Rory, fear and fascination mixing on his face.

Rory imagined that their hands must be burning like candles, melting and dripping in the flame. But actually, they didn’t hurt at all. Looking at their hands, they saw that both were unmarked. The heat of the flames on his body was pleasant and comforting, the sound of the fire soothing. Rory let the heat and the sound of the fire wrap around them like a hot bath.

“Rory, the horses!” Simon yelled.

Rory listened for more than the sound of the flame. They could hear the horses whinnying in terror and the sound of people screaming. Reluctantly, Rory tried to coax the fire back into their fingers. Nothing changed for a moment, then the rivulets of flame draw back to Rory’s fingertips and died entirely. Slowly, the warmth faded from their hands to take up its place in their heart.

The stables were still burning, flames licking up the wall to the thatched roof. Rory reached out to pull the flames back to them as they had with the fire on their hands. Fire surged from the stables to their hands, but the flames on the stables had a greedy hunger and Rory couldn’t pull enough away to make a difference. Even trying was making their hands painfully hot.

Servants dashed in and out of the stable, leading the horses free of the fire. Rory counted until they had seen all eleven horses escape the stable, then let their hands fall. The flames raged higher. Other servants began to appear with buckets of water to dash over the flames, but could not douse them any more than Rory could.

Rory stood, numbed, as their family, their servants, and servants from the neighboring manors fought the flames. They were able to save the manor house itself and keep the fire from spreading to neighboring estates, but there was no saving the stables.

The wreckage was still smoldering when the templars arrived to take Rory away.

 

 **Simon: B is for Blame**  
  
Simon’s room was too quiet the night after the templars came.

It shouldn’t have been all that much quieter than usual. Rory wasn’t noisy. But it was too quiet and too still, and Simon knew the empty bed on the other side of the room was there every time he woke up.

It was just as bad in the morning. The bed was still there, untouched, and the servant who came in to make sure Simon washed and dressed would hardly talk to him, and wouldn’t look at him at all. The whole house seemed too quiet, and only Constance and Alroy were at the breakfast table. Alroy made a face when Simon sat down and scooted all the way to the end of the table. Constance pretended not to notice.

“Where’s everyone else?” Simon asked. One of Martin or Irene was usually at breakfast, and usually Mother, too, if only for a little while.

“That’s rude, Simon,” Constance said. “You’re supposed to start with _good morning_.”

“Good morning, Connie,” Simon said. “Where is everyone?”

“Dealing with the mess that worthless little brat made,” Alroy said.

Simon bristled. “It wasn’t Rory’s fault!” It was _Alroy’s_ fault. If he hadn’t been pushing Rory and Simon around, none of it would have happened.

Alroy scowled back at him. “I always knew there was something wrong with that little brat.”

Simon grabbed a piece of bread from the basket and pulled his arm back for a throw.

“Hush, both of you!” Constance reached across the table and grabbed Simon’s arm. “And stop that. We don’t need any more trouble today. Mother and Irene went to talk to the Revered Mother, and Father and Martin are looking at the damage to the stables.”

Simon dropped the bread and stared down at his plate when Constance let go. The fire hadn’t been too scary, at least not once they’d gotten the horses out, but the horses and dogs had been scared, and Simon felt bad about that. He’d always liked going down to the stables. They’d have to build new ones, probably. He wondered if it would be as nice and comfortable. He suddenly registered what Constance had said, and asked, “Mother’s talking to the Revered Mother? Is she going to let Rory come home?”

Alroy made a rude noise.

“Of course not, Simon.” Constance leaned over to pat his arm this time. “Mages belong in Circles. All the clerics say so.”

“But why?” Simon couldn’t picture the Circle. How did you make a whole building out of circles, anyway?

“’Cause it’s where they belong,” Alroy put in. Simon glared at him.

“It’s still not Rory’s fault.” Half-heartedly, he took a couple of bites of porridge.

“Of course it isn’t.” Constance sounded sweet as honey. “The Maker makes some people mages, we don’t know why. But the important thing is what the Chant says: Magic must serve man, not rule over him.”

Simon frowned into his bowl. “I don’t get it.”

“That’s why we send mages to Circles, so they learn to serve man, and so they can’t ever rule over us.”

“Like in Tevinter,” Alroy said. “Do you want magisters to be in charge of everything? I bet not.”

Simon pushed the porridge around with his spoon. “Rory wouldn’t hurt anyone.”

“No, and I’m sure he’ll be fine,” Constance said.

Simon wasn’t so sure of that. “Why can’t I go, too?”

Constance said, “You’re not a mage, Simon. The Circle isn’t for you.”

“I could be!” Simon looked up at her with a sudden hope. “Maybe I’m a mage, too!”

“You’re about as useless as the other one,” Alroy muttered.

“Hush,” Constance said to him, and “Simon, no. The templars would have known. And at least one of you can stay at home.”

“But we’re _twins_ ,” Simon said. How could the templars have known? He’d been excited when the templars first arrived, all tall and stern in their armor, but then they’d taken Rory _away_ with them. And Rory had looked so scared, too, and Simon hadn’t even had a chance to talk to him, not really—there’d been too much confusion, what with everyone screaming and running around, trying to put out the flames and get the horses out of their stalls. It wasn’t fair, they should have let Simon talk to Rory. Two of the templars had looked Simon over, too, but they hadn’t _done_ anything.

“The Maker’s ways are mysterious,” Constance said piously.

Simon scowled into his bowl. He wasn’t really very hungry.

“Whatever are you three talking about?”

They all straightened as Mother swept into the room, and Constance said, “Good morning, Mother. Simon just had some questions about what happened yesterday...” She trailed off as Mother’s face hardened, her mouth turning down.

Mother set one hand on the back of a chair and bowed her head. After a long moment, she said, “There has been no mage born in the Trevelyan family in five generations, and even longer in my own. This is a very grievous situation in our family. We shall not be discussing it further.”

“But why?” Simon asked.

He thought Mother wasn’t going to answer, as she fixed him with a look that made him want to shrink in his chair, but then she said, “Simon, you must simply get used to being the youngest. Rory shall have a new family in the Circle now, and will learn all that he must to be a credit to the Trevelyan name, even there. It is best for everyone that this was discovered so soon. Have I made myself clear?”

Simon didn’t understand at all. Rory didn’t need a new family. He mumbled, “Yes, Mother,” anyway, along with Alroy and Constance.

“And now you all have things to do. Constance, Mother Patience would like to see you; Alroy, you should be reporting to the swordmaster; and Simon, you shall see Master Dermot in the schoolroom for your lessons.”

“Lessons?” Simon exclaimed, outraged. He was supposed to have _lessons_? _Today_? As if nothing had happened? _Rory_ was the one who liked lessons. Simon would far rather go practice with the swordmaster, even if he had to do it with Alroy. Alroy was using real weapons, even, not wooden practice ones like Simon and Rory. It wasn’t fair. None of this was fair! Now Simon had to have lessons all alone? He glared down the table at Alroy, who sneered back, looking superior.

“Yes, lessons.” Mother’s whip-crack voice made Simon jerk his attention back to her. “We can raise you, at least, to be a credit to the Trevelyan name,” she said, and clapped her hands. “Go, all of you.”

Simon hadn’t even finished breakfast, but Constance was already standing, and the servants were coming in to take the plates away, so he got up and slowly started toward the door.

Alroy shoved at his shoulder as he went by and leaned over to say, “I’m going to be a templar, you know. I’m going to be watching you.”

He pushed by and Simon scowled at his back. If Alroy wasn’t so pushy and mean, Rory would never have set the stables on fire.

A couple of servants scurried by, whispering to each other as they saw him. Simon hunched his shoulders and tried not to notice. He walked slower and slower. Master Dermot would have to tell Mother and Father if he didn’t come to lessons at all, so he couldn’t just run away, but he might not say anything if Simon was just late. Simon didn’t know where the Circle was, anyway. He could probably find it if he looked hard enough. It couldn’t be that hard to find something made out of circles, right? But they said mages belonged in the Circle, and they said Simon wasn’t a mage. It wasn’t fair.

He scuffed his feet along the tile floor. Alroy was always mean. Simon was used to that. He’d tried to stop him from picking on Rory this time, but he hadn’t been big enough or fast enough. Maybe if Simon had done better, Rory wouldn’t have been so scared. Then the fire wouldn’t have happened, and the templars wouldn’t have taken Rory away. So maybe it was Simon’s fault, too.

With these grim thoughts in mind, Simon dragged his feet through the halls, but no matter how slowly he went, he got to the schoolroom anyway.

“Good morning,” Master Dermot greeted him briskly. “Come now, young ser, no need for quite so long a face.”

“I don’t want to have lessons.” Simon plopped himself down on his chair and tried not to look at the empty one across the table. “And Rory won’t be coming.”

Master Dermot paused before saying more seriously, “Your lady mother told me what happened.”

“Oh.”

“But we must go on as usual, eh?”

“It’s not right, though.” Simon kicked his feet idly against the legs of the chair.

“Trust me, lad, the Circle’s the best place for a young mage. Rory will be safe and sound and out of trouble there.”

That sounded boring to Simon, but maybe Rory would like it. He hated getting into trouble. Simon thought that over. “But what’s the Circle like? No one will tell me.”

Mother would have told him not to whine for the tone in his voice, but Master Dermot didn’t say anything about it. “I’m not a mage myself, but there are plenty of mages there, old and young,” he said. “And templars to keep everyone safe.”

“Are there lessons there, too?”

Dermot laughed. “Oh, I’m sure there are. Lessons all the time, so they learn all about magic, and a whole library full of books to study.”

Rory probably _would_ like that, after all. Maybe he wouldn’t miss Simon after all. Simon frowned at the table and kicked his chair again.

“So there’s no need to fret about your brother,” Dermot said. “Get out your pen and parchment, please. We shall start today by practicing your letters.”

Simon sighed at the idea of fussing over letters all morning. He was no good at them, really, the pen was stiff and fiddly and his letters were always too big or too small, or he wrote them backwards and didn’t even realize it. Rory had always helped him. Still, he did as he was told.

“I’ll tell you what,” Dermot said. “Practice for a time, and then you can write Rory a letter and copy it out in a good clean hand.”

Simon startled at that. Mother hadn’t said anything about letters. “I can?”

Dermot pursed his lips. “I don’t see why not. Practice those letter forms, and then think about what you want to say. I’ll see about having it delivered to the Circle.”

The idea almost made writing sound appealing, even with that messy ink and scratchy quill to deal with, and the slippery letters themselves. Still, Simon brightened a little and set to work.


	3. C is for Court and Circle

**Simon: C is for Court**

Simon had thought going to dinner at the Teyrn’s palace would be exciting, but instead it was the most boring thing he could remember for quite some time.

Of course, it didn’t help that apparently Alroy was minding him for the night. Simon wasn’t sure whether Mother had told him to, or whether Alroy had simply taken it upon himself, but he was stuck to Simon’s elbow like a particularly ill-tempered guard dog. One of these days, Simon thought, one of these days maybe he’d finally be taller than Alroy. For now, Alroy still had two handspans’ worth of height, and he used it to loom.

Also, Simon’s new court clothes itched. He glanced ahead in the receiving line, where Mother and Father and Irene and Martin stood, each resplendent in their best. None of them were looking at him, so he surreptitiously scratched under his arm.

“Stop that,” Alroy said.

“It itches,” Simon grumbled.

“You know Mother wouldn’t like it.”

Simon knew Alroy was right, and subsided with a sigh. It seemed like they had been standing in this line forever. There were tons of people who’d already finished, and were walking around now and chattering and looking like they were having a much more pleasant time. Alroy, he saw, was watching some of the girls, red-haired Celia Darrow and some cousin of hers, who looked around Simon’s age, maybe a little younger, and Theresa Montferrat, who was a cousin of theirs on Mother’s side, and a couple of dark-haired girls Simon couldn’t place right away. He sighed again and shifted his weight from one foot to the other.

“Stop fidgeting,” Alroy hissed. “I knew you were too much of a baby for this.”

“I’m not,” Simon whispered back. “It’s just boring.”

“You wouldn’t say that if you weren’t a baby. Pay attention.” Simon gritted his teeth at Alroy’s stupid superior attitude, but Alroy kept talking without leaving him a space to break in. “It’s an honor to be at court, especially tonight. The Viscount of Kirkwall is here, and Mother thought you were finally old enough to come to court, but I knew you weren’t.”

“Mother didn’t ask you,” Simon said. It had to be true. Mother wouldn’t have asked Alroy’s opinion about something like that. Alroy glared back at him, and then Irene was giving them both a stern look over her shoulder, and Simon subsided.

They were finally moving, at least, taking a few steps forward. And Alroy had stopped talking, so Simon did his best not to fidget as they moved along, and the party in front of them stepped away, and at last they’d gotten to the front where the important people they were supposed to greet were.

Simon recognized the Teyrn, a stout, round-faced man with a broad smile. There was another man with him, thin and pale, with graying hair and blue eyes, dressed mostly in black. That must be the Viscount of Kirkwall. There was also a woman just as round as the Teyrn. The Teyrn’s wife, Simon recalled, and frantically tried to remember what her proper title was, and how he was supposed to address her.

Father and Mother had made their bows, and Mother was doing the talking now: “... and here are our children, my lord, our eldest and heir Irene—”

“Of course,” said the Teyrn, bowing himself in answer to Irene’s curtsey. “As lovely as ever.”

“Your grace is too kind,” Irene said, with her most charming smile.

“—and Martin, our second—”

Another exchange of bows, and the Teyrn said something genial to Martin, who smiled and ducked his head. “What, don’t I recall another daughter?” the Teyrn said to Mother.

“It’s Sister Constance now,” Father said. “She took her vows as a cleric just last year.”

“Splendid!” said the Teyrn. “You must be very proud.”

Mother said, “We are, and of course Alroy here is training with the templars—”

Alroy bowed, rather awkwardly, Simon thought, as the Teyrn again said, “Splendid, splendid.”

“—and this is our youngest, Simon.”

Simon stiffened. He hated it when they said that. They never seemed to remember.

“What a fine lad,” the Teyrn said, still smiling, and Simon made his bow.

“Thank you, m’lord.”

“Tough being the youngest of the family, eh?”

Out of the corner of his eye, Simon saw that Mother and Father had moved on to greet the Viscount, and seized his chance. “It’s all right, m’lord, but I’m not the youngest.”

“No?” The Teyrn laughed.

“No, sir, I have a younger twin, Rory, but he went to the Circle four years ago.”

The Teyrn’s smile faded a bit. “Ah, yes, that business.”

Mother’s hand suddenly clamped onto Simon’s arm. “Now, Simon, you must come meet the Viscount,” she said, and he made a parting bow to the Teyrn.

She barely let him speak to the Viscount at all, though, and before he knew it, she had tugged him down the line of tables to his place, and said through her teeth, “What were you thinking? Don’t embarrass the family like that.”

“Rory’s not embarrassing,” Simon protested.

“I’ll not have people whispering from here to Kirkwall that the Trevelyans have a mageborn child,” Mother said, and pushed him toward his seat. “Sit, stay put, and use your best manners when dinner is served. And wipe that sullen look off your face.”

Simon took his seat, muttering, “Yes, Mother,” and she disappeared into the crowd.

There was a boy about his own age in the next seat. He was thin and pale, with longish dark hair, and sat with his head bent, looking at a book. He didn’t appear to have noticed that Simon was there. There was no one else around to talk to, so Simon said, “Hullo.”

The boy started. “Oh! Hello.”

“I’m Simon. Simon Trevelyan.” He was probably supposed to say something else to introduce himself properly, but he wasn’t sure what.

“Saemus Dumar,” said the other boy. “Of Kirkwall. My, er, my father’s the Viscount.”

“Oh! My father’s Bann Trevelyan.” Simon searched his mind for something polite to say. “What’s Kirkwall like?”

Saemus blinked. “I suppose it must be like a lot of cities? It’s very steep. We live on top of the hill. I’m not allowed out much.”

“I always heard there were a lot of templars in Kirkwall.”

“I suppose there are,” Saemus said thoughtfully. “I don’t see all of them, of course. But the Knight-Commander comes to the Viscount’s palace sometimes. She’s very stern.”

“My older brother’s supposed to be a templar,” Simon said. “But my twin is a mage, in the Ostwick Circle. He’s much nicer than my other brother, the templar one. I don’t want to be a templar if they’re like Alroy.”

“Oh.” Saemus blinked at him in some confusion. “You have a twin?”

“Yes.” Simon would have liked to slouch in his chair, but his new shirt and tunic were too stiff and made it uncomfortable.

“I wish I had a twin,” Saemus said wistfully. “It must be nice to have someone always around.”

“It was, until they took Rory to the Circle.”

Saemus turned a little pink. “Sorry.”

“It’s all right,” Simon said. “Did you ride here from Kirkwall? Do you have a good swordmaster?”

“I, um, I’m not very good,” Saemus said. “We came on a ship, but I was seasick most of the time.”

“Oh.” A small, awkward silence gathered while Simon tried to think of something else to say. Saemus didn’t seem sure what to say, either, so Simon felt like he had to say something. “What are you reading?” Rory had always liked talking about books, and still talked about them in his letters.

Saemus brightened up at once, so Simon thought he must have said the right thing. “Brother Genitivi’s travels through Thedas. He went to so many place and saw so many things! I wish I could travel.”

“I know that book.” He was supposed to read it as part of lessons. It had some interesting stories in it, though parts of it were slow going. “Which part are you on?”

That gave them something to talk about, at least, and soon the tables filled with other guests, and the servants came with food, filling their cups with watered wine as they did.

Simon leaned over and whispered to Saemus, “I bet we could sneak to the kitchens and get some real wine. Or swap our cups!”

Saemus stared at him, wide-eyed. “But why would we...? Are you serious?”

“Why not?”

Saemus looked worried. “I’d better not.”

Simon sighed and returned to his plate. Rory would usually join him even if he wasn’t sure Simon’s ideas were good ones, and they’d always have more fun that way. He didn’t know Saemus well enough to try to talk him into anything.

Still, it was nice to have someone his own age, here, and having someone else to talk to meant Alroy didn’t bother him. Alroy went talking to the girls, in fact, and tried to dance with one or two. Simon saw him, moving around the room. The whole family let Simon be, in fact. Irene came over once to say hello and meet Saemus, and left with an approving nod, but Mother and Father spent all their time talking to the Teyrn and the Viscount and the other Banns and such.

“Very good,” said Mother approvingly when she came to collect Simon at the end of the night. “Very wise to make a friend of the Viscount’s son, Simon, you did well.”

“Viscount for now,” Father muttered.

Simon squirmed a little in the back of the carriage. He really didn’t care who anyone’s father was.

It was late by the time they arrived home, and Simon was having a hard time keeping his eyes open. He wanted to start his letter to Rory before he forgot, though. He even had something interesting to put in his letter this time. He was never sure Rory was really interested in hearing about riding or sword training or his lessons. Rory was way further than him in lessons by now, anyway.

Still, he had to write the letters, so they wouldn’t forget.

_Dere Rory,_

He knew that didn’t look right, but he couldn’t remember how it was supposed to look. He’d fix it in the morning. Master Dermot would help. Simon could never seem to get his spelling right without help.

_We had dinner at the Teirn’s qalace tonight..._

 

 

**Rory: C is for Circle**

Rory perched on the edge of a chair, staring at the piece of parchment before them and chewing absently on the feather end of their quill. Their single candle shed a flickering light on the blank page, but the refectory around them was gray in the winter gloom. The room was uncomfortably cold, the fire in the hearth reduced to embers. But it was quiet – the reason Rory had sought it out to write.

Normally, Rory preferred to write their letters in the library. While stuffy, it was warmer and more comfortable than the refectory. But Blayne had been in there reading, and the old mage could not seem to read without constantly babbling half-spoken, half-sung thoughts in three or four languages. The aggravating distraction made it impossible for Rory to think, and anyone they complained to would say something about it being, “Blayne’s way.” The common room was full of talkative mages, Rory’s tiny quarters had no space suited to writing, so the refectory had seemed the best choice.

Rory abruptly realized what they were doing with the feather and guiltily pulled the pen out from between their teeth. Their mentor Lianna had delivered several lectures about the wasteful, unsanitary, and generally unappealing nature of that particular habit. It was not the only habit she had scolded Rory for. Their hesitance to put pen to paper was a recurring subject. “You can’t always have the perfect plan worked out in your head before you write a single word, Rory.” It still felt awkward and unnatural to write without having a plan for the entire piece, whether an essay on the theory of magic or a letter to their brother, but they were trying.

At least the very beginning of a letter was easy. They dipped their quill in the inkwell and wrote:

_Dear Simon,_

_I was so happy to receive your letter. I read it over several times right away._ That was no exaggeration. Simon’s letters were typically on the short side, but packed with activity and excitement. Simon was constantly describing the scrapes he got into, relaying family gossip, and repeating the stories of travelers. They described a world of hustle and bustle as unlike Rory’s own as possible.

This made answering them a bit intimidating. Nothing ever happened in the Tower, and, truth be told, that was one of Rory’s favorite things about it. They worried that what passed for excitement in their life was tedious and boring to Simon. He always wrote that he was happy to get Rory’s letters, but that didn’t stop Rory from fretting.

Rory glanced back at Simon’s letter – was there something they’d wanted to respond to? Ah, yes. _I was glad to read you had the chance to visit Aunt Eileen again. I always loved the stories she read to us. I hope that she is in good health._ Rory wondered if Aunt Eileen even remembered that Simon had once visited with his twin. Simon never spoke of it directly in his letters, but Rory had the strong impression that Simon was the only member of the family who hadn’t forgotten Rory entirely.

_My studies have been going much better. I told Liann that I learn better from a book than from hearing her lecture. I was afraid she’d be angry, but she just keeps bringing me more books to read. I’ve learned a lot about controlling the fire. I can summon it up without it burning anything now. I have to have an Enchanter present to practice. When they’re busy, I have to wait around to try anything._

Simon would probably find that perplexing. In Rory’s place, Simon would most likely be practicing magic in secret at every opportunity. Most of the other apprentices were doing so, to believe their talk. They tended to dismiss Liann’s hair-raising tales of the possible consequences as fear-mongering. Rory was not so certain of this. They had done more reading in the histories than any of the others, and the books tended to support Liann’s accounts. Overall, inconvenient as it might be, Rory much preferred having an adult mage present in case something went wrong.

_I can read while I’m waiting, though, so it’s all right. The library here dwarfs Father’s or Aunt Eileen’s. I’ve been reading about the history of the Circles of Magi and their connection to the Chantry, and learning more about the Chant. And best of all, Liann’s started giving me books on magical theory – not just how to do magic, but why it works. I’m just beginning to understand how a mage can harmonize their personal aura with the Veil to make their spells stronger…_

Rory stopped, frowned, and crossed out that last bit. It might as well have been written in Tevene for all the sense it would make to Simon. Besides, they had the vague sense that these matters weren’t really supposed to be discussed outside the Circle. What had they read about recently that Simon would find more interesting?

Aha! They grinned and put the pen to paper. _I’ve been reading about the ancient Avvars – after the First Blight, not as far back as Maferath and Havard. They had some really confused ideas about religion, but I think you’ll be impressed by their deeds._ Rory’s pen flew across the parchment now, recounting the tales of Ivatt Jovsen and Rekkas Hildsen, then of the warlord Balak. Rory edited out the historian’s speculation, focusing on bold deeds and battle. The question of what was true and false in these stories might intrigue Rory, but it would surely bore Simon.

Rory quickly reached the bottom of the page and squeezed _Your twin, Rory Trevelyan_ into the bottom margin. They set the pen down and gently closed the lid on the inkwell. The dinner bell hadn’t rung yet, but it surely would soon, and the room would fill with mages and apprentices. If Rory hurried, they could give the letter to a templar guard before dinner, to be read, sealed, and passed on to his brother’s messenger. Holding the letter carefully to avoid smearing the ink, Rory rushed down the steps to the bottom floor of the tower.

The templar stationed at the guard post was a tall, fair-skinned man. Rory peered at him through the spectacles Liann had fitted him with, making out a broad face and a livid scar on his right cheek. He was unfamiliar to Rory and thus doubtless new to the Circle. He turned as Rory reached the bottom of the steps and growled, “What has you in such a hurry?”

Rory drew back in alarm at the suspicion and hostility in the strange templar’s voice. They seriously considered muttering an apology and bolting for the stairs, but that would mean Simon’s letter would go undelivered until tomorrow. Quietly and hesitantly, Rory answered, “I have a letter, ser, for my brother. Could you, ah, pass it on to his messenger?”

“Let me see that,” the templar demanded. Rory surrendered the letter into the man’s much larger hand. A few moments passed as the templar scanned over the text. Then, without warning, he seized Rory’s arm and gripped it tightly. Rory whimpered as the templar scowled. “This letter contains information about your magical studies? It is forbidden for you to share this information outside the Circle. Who is this ‘Simon’ you speak so freely to? Some apostate you are in communication with?”

“No,” Rory stammered, “he’s just my brother, my twin. He’s no mage…”

“Don’t you dare lie to me!” the templar thundered, tightening his grip on Rory’s arm and lifting it high enough that Roy went up on the tips of their toes. Rory’s shoulder popped painfully, and he squealed in pain and surprise. “I’ll have the truth from you, one way or another.”

“I don’t lie!” Rory squeaked out, barely audible.

The templar released Rory’s arm, but any relief Rory felt was momentary as the man grabbed them by the collar. “All you mages lie,” he snarled. His arm tensed back as if he was preparing to throw Rory across the room. Rory squealed again and closed their eyes.

“What’s the trouble here, Cadmus?” It took Rory a moment to realize that someone else had entered the guardroom. He couldn’t see the speaker without twisting awkwardly in his captor’s grip, but he recognized the deep, female voice as Ser Nuala’s.

Cadmus turned to face her, his expression belligerent. “This boy is trying to smuggle out a letter!”

 _Smuggle?_ Rory thought, indignant. _I_ gave _it to you_.

“Rory? Yes, he – ah, they often write to their brother Simon,” Nuala answered. Cadmus winced a bit at that. “Hand me the letter,” Nuala ordered.

Cadmus released Rory and passed the letter to the other templar. Rory took a step back, frowning as they noticed how the ink had smeared from Cadmus’s rough handling. The three stood as Nuala quickly read the letter.

“This appears innocent enough,” Nuala said. Her tone grew sharper. “And it had you on the verge of accusing Rory of apostasy? I don’t know what you had to deal with in the Gallows, but Ostwick is different. Is that understood, Ser Cadmus?”

“Yes,” Cadmus mumbled sullenly.

“Yes?” Nuala prompted.

“Yes, Knight-Lieutenant.”

Nuala turned to Rory. “You can go, Rory. I’ll see that this letter gets delivered.”

Rory gratefully scrambled back up the stairs, rubbing at the soreness on their arm. Below them, Nuala’s dressing down of Cadmus continued. “We do not mistreat the mages under our care. If you want to stay at Ostwick, you’ll need to remember that…”

Her voice faded in the distance as Rory reached the top of the stairs. The dinner bell would ring any minute, but they had no interest in food right now. Instead, they climbed three more flights of stairs to their quarters and curled up in bed, heart pounding. Rory tried closing their eyes, but all they could see was Cadmus, raising an arm to strike. Their mind went back to their brother Alroy, now, according to Simon’s letters, training as a templar himself. They had thought that being in the Circle had freed them from such men.

But if the Circle was not proof against them, it also held those like Nuala who would step forward to protect them. Softly, Rory began to murmur, “Blessed are they who stand before the corrupt and the wicked and do not falter. Blessed are the peacekeepers, the champions of the just…” They continued to recite the Canticle of Benedictions until their breathing grew slower and they slipped into sleep.

When Rory woke, they found that someone – probably Liann – had passed through the room while they slept. Their blanket had been carefully pulled over them, and beside the bed was a jar of ointment that Rory found numbed the pain from the livid bruises that had formed on their arm.


	4. D is for Dismissed and Drawing Room

**Simon: D is for Dismissed**

It wasn’t usual for Simon to be called into his father’s office, and on the whole he liked it that way. It was even less usual for him to be called there straight from the training ground. He’d been practicing with his sword, and he hadn’t been given time to clean up, so he went in still sweaty and dusty. Mother wouldn’t like it, and Father might not, either, but he could hardly help it if they weren’t going to give him time, could he?

Even so, Simon wasn’t expecting to open the door and find not just Father there, but three others as well: Father, behind his great oaken desk; Mother, seated in a chair and clutching a handkerchief; Irene, quietly composed as usual in her own seat at Father’s left; and a stranger. It took Simon a moment to realize it wasn’t a stranger at all, but then he had never before seen Aunt Eileen’s butler outside Aunt Eileen’s house. “Father?” he said uncertainly.

“Sit down,” Father said. Simon couldn’t gauge his mood at all. He entered warily and perched on the one empty chair on the room, feeling large and dirty and awkward in the tidy, crowded space. Father went on, “May we proceed, then?” and for a moment Simon thought his father was still speaking to him.

“By all means,” Aunt Eileen’s man replied. Lionel, that was his name. “The matter is simple enough. Now that Eileen Cavendish is deceased, there is the disposition of her estate to see to.”

He paused, and Simon shifted in his chair. Aunt Eileen had died only a few days before, and Simon wasn’t sure how he felt about it yet. He’d miss his great-aunt, yes—he’d visited her regularly since he was a child, even after Rory was taken away. He knew that Mother had sent him sometimes, to get him out from underfoot when he was younger, but he’d kept going of his own accord. Partly out of a sense of duty, and partly because, even though her house could be quiet and dull, it was at least a place where he didn’t feel always in the way, and his elderly aunt was always kind. He hadn’t seen her in some time, though. She’d been too ill for visitors for the last few months. He’d dropped by once, and painstakingly scrawled out a note or two in between. The last time he’d seen her, she’d been wheezing for breath, too ill to speak more than a word or two at once. Simon was, on the whole, a little glad she didn’t have to struggle so any more. He had a sneaking suspicion that might make him a bad person.

“Well?” Mother said, squeezing her handkerchief in her hands. Irene leaned forward ever so slightly.

“Even that is simple enough,” Lionel said, removing a scroll from inside his coat. “You may read her testament yourselves, of course. Plainly put, aside from some personal mementos and charitable donations, the bulk of the estate is left to Lord Simon.”

“What?” Simon’s voice squeaked, much to his chagrin.

“What?” Mother exclaimed.

“In point of fact,” Lionel said, looking above everyone’s heads, “the estate is to be divided between Lord Simon and Lord Rory. However—”

“That’s impossible,” Mother said. “Mages may not hold property.”

The way she said _mages_ grated on Simon’s ear, but he was too shocked to respond. How could his great-aunt have left all her property to him and Rory? And why? She hadn’t even seen Rory in years, and Simon, well, he’d visited, but only every so often. It was hard to believe she’d cared that much.

His chair felt too hard and too small, as he tried to find a more comfortable way to sit. Mother and Father were both flinging questions at Lionel, but Simon hardly noticed what they were saying. Irene had taken the scroll from Lionel and was reading it with pursed lips. When Father finally said, “Let me see that,” she handed it over without a word.

Mother had finally run down, and sat with her lips pressed tight together. Into the quiet, Lionel said, “I think you’ll find that everything is in order.” He almost sounded amused. Simon stole a quick glance at him.

“We’ll see about that,” Mother said sharply.

“There can be no question about Lord Simon’s share, at least,” Lionel replied, his voice smooth and calm and deferential. Mother clearly wasn’t willing to be appeased, though.

“Rory’s is another matter,” she said.

“True,” Lionel allowed. “It’s hardly an unprecedented situation. I’m sure the Chantry has procedures in place.”

Mother sniffed.

Simon quickly lost the thread of the talk that followed, something about lawsuits and inheritance law and trusts. Dried sweat was making him itch, and he wondered if anyone would even notice if he left. He was just considering trying to stand up unnoticed when Lionel said, “If that’s all, might I have a word with Lord Simon?”

“If you must,” said Mother, and Father nodded in acquiescence, so Simon cautiously followed the older man outside into the corridor.

“I don’t understand,” Simon blurted out, and was immediately embarrassed. “I mean, I don’t—”

“She had a fondness for you and your twin,” Lionel said. “And she was an eccentric woman.”

Simon hunched his shoulders. Lionel seemed much shorter than he had been the last time Simon had visited, and much grayer. He and Aunt Eileen had always seemed like a matched pair, somehow. “I’m sorry,” Simon said.

“Thank you.” Lionel drew some papers from an inner pocket of his coat. “As you are Madam’s heir, these accounts fall to you. I have written a summary on the top, including what you can expect monthly.”

Simon took the papers gingerly, and frowned as he tried to make sense of the numbers. The figure on the bottom finally sank in, and his eyes widened. Usually he didn’t have much coin of his own—whatever he needed came from the family—and the idea of having so much, and every _month_ , made him feel like someone had knocked him over.

“This may be foolish advice for a young man,” Lionel said dryly, “but do try not to spend it all at once.”

Simon wasn’t even sure what he would spend it _on_. Every month? A horse, perhaps, he usually rode one of the family string, and it would be nice to have his own, but... “I... how would I?”

Lionel chuckled. “Ah, innocence. I imagine you’ll think of something.”

Simon frowned, staring at the figures. “What _should_ I do?”

Lionel had been starting to turn away, but paused and cocked his head. “Are you truly asking for advice?”

Simon fidgeted. “Well, yes. I could try to ask someone else, I suppose, but...” He jerked his arm toward the closed study door behind him.

“Hm. Yes. I quite see.” Lionel’s brows drew down, considering, and he held out a hand. “If I might?”

Simon hesitated, but returned the sheaf of papers, and Lionel promptly drew out a pen, flipped over the top page, and began scribbling on it. “You can certainly afford yourself some luxuries, as you like,” Lionel said, not looking up, “but in truth, if it were me, I’d save the bulk of it. There are some reliable revenues here, and possibilities for investment, and you’re young yet. You may have greater expenses later. Should you marry, perhaps.” He looked up under thick gray eyebrows. Simon shifted his weight from one foot to the other, feeling awkward. Irene hadn’t even married yet—being choosy, Mother said sometimes, at table—and Martin was carefully courting among a few wealthy young women. He doubted anyone would care much about Simon’s own possible marriage until both his elder sibs were settled. Constance and Alroy wouldn’t, of course, gone to the Chantry and the templars.

Much to his relief, Lionel went on without waiting for an answer. “Or perhaps you’ll simply acquire more expensive tastes as you grow older. You can only expect so much from the Trevelyan inheritance, with so many of you, so this may be what you live on in the future, lad. In any case, I could undertake to manage these funds for a modest fee, and I wouldn’t recommend exceeding these monthly expenditures.”

Simon took the paper back and looked at the figures. It looked reasonable enough, not that he knew much about money. “All right,” he said hurriedly, wanting to be done with the whole thing.

Lionel chuckled again. “Don’t rush into anything, young sir. I’ll write up a proper contract.”

The next few days were very unpleasant. At least Alroy wasn’t there, off training with the templars, but Irene was cool and distant, even more so than usual. Martin was positively affronted, and had drawn Simon aside to tell him how inappropriate it was, for some obscure reason Simon didn’t even understand—Martin was like that sometimes. Mother was even worse, barely looking at Simon at all, but making needling remarks about the ingratitude of one’s relations. Simon almost wanted to give the money away entirely, but he knew that would just make them all angrier. What Mother wanted, as far as he could tell, was for him to turn everything over to her, or maybe Irene. But Aunt Eileen had wanted Simon and Rory to have it, and Rory couldn’t use it, so Simon felt a certain mulish desire to hang on to whatever he could.

Simon was just congratulating himself on having missed Mother at breakfast, which made for a much more pleasant meal, as he sauntered to the schoolroom for his usual morning session.

It turned out Mother was in the schoolroom, though. Simon stopped in his tracks in the doorway. He couldn’t recall the last time she had been there.

“There you are,” Mother said sweetly. “We were just discussing Dermot’s pension.”

“Pension?” Simon looked at his tutor, bewildered. Master Dermot stood in his usual sober brown and black, rubbing his gray head. For the first time, it occurred to Simon that Dermot was getting old.

“You’re fifteen now, my dear,” Mother said. “You’ve no need of a tutor now, unless you wish to become a Chantry clerk, by some chance?” At Simon’s flinch, she added, “I thought not.”

“But,” Simon said, uselessly, and Mother swept past with a pat on his arm.

“After all, you’re _quite_ grown up now, aren’t you? Dermot is ready for a pleasant retirement, don’t you think?”

He let her whisk her way by, and turned back to Dermot feeling quite desperate. “Is she serious?”

“It’s a quite decent pension, all things considered,” Master Dermot said, sinking into the nearest chair. “You needn’t worry about that.”

“It’s not that,” Simon said. “She’s only doing this because of the inheritance. She’d never said a word about it before.”

Master Dermot’s lips compressed into a firm line. “Perhaps.”

The more Simon thought about it, the more sure he was. It was an odd kind of punishment, but that’s definitely what it was: punishment for not doing as Mother wanted. But now that he’d thought of the coin, the solution was right there. “I could keep you on myself! I could afford it now, couldn’t I?” He’d asked Master Dermot to look over the papers Lionel had given him the day before.

Dermot laughed a little. “Not so hasty, Simon, let’s consider. Sit down, won’t you?” He gestured to Simon’s usual chair, around the corner of the table. Simon took it, reluctantly.

“She’s not wrong, you know,” Dermot continued. “You’re nearly grown, and your tutoring could have ended a year ago with little loss.”

“But—”

“And you and I both know that you’ve little enough love for books. You know enough of your letters and figures to get along, and you’re far better suited to the profession of arms. Save your coin for a better swordmaster, that’s my advice.”

Simon scowled at the table. It was true enough that he’d never cared for his lessons—geography was better than most, and he’d enjoyed chess and other games well enough, but it still took him a long time to read anything, and most of what he read didn’t hold his attention long. Dermot still helped with his spelling and letters, though, and besides that, he’d been Simon’s tutor as long as he could remember. Why did everything have to change so suddenly? It was bad enough to have gotten this gawky, always stumbling over everything and bumping into things, but this had to change, too? And Dermot was the one who sent his letters to Rory, always had been. “You help me a lot.” He wasn’t sure how he could make the older man understand.

Dermot leaned closer and laid a hand on his shoulder. “If it’s Rory you’re worrying about,” he said in a low voice, “you needn’t. In fact, now that you’re older, they might just allow more than letters.”

Simon lifted his head and stared at Dermot, astounded. “What?” His voice cracked, embarrassingly. He’d never even considered what Dermot was hinting at.

Dermot smiled, almost slyly. “I’ll tell you which templar to see. I warn you, though—you’ll need to have some of that coin handy.”

 

**Rory: D is for Drawing Room**

Rory sat in their customary place in the library, brooding over the events of the midday meal. Over the last few months, Rory’s arms seemed to have doubled in length, and their muscles considered any command more along the nature of a suggestion. So when Rion had passed them a bowl of rabbit stew, they had promptly fumbled it, and their attempt to recover had succeeded only in deflecting bowl and contents onto Elara’s robes. She had been decidedly unamused, but Rion and much of the rest of the table had made up for it with roars of laughter as Rory fled the room.

Possibly, once the sting of Rory’s humiliation had faded, the whole incident would make a hilarious anecdote in a letter to Simon. But that would take time and distance; for now, it rankled. Rory needed a distraction. Practicing magic in this state seemed ill-advised, and in any case there were no mages available to supervise, since they were all at lunch. Well, Blayne was over in his corner of the library as usual, but Rory seriously doubted the elderly enchanter’s capability to deal with any magical emergencies. At least his sing-song murmuring had gotten quiet enough over the months for Rory to treat it as background noise.

Concentrating on anything scholarly proved likewise impossible, so Rory unearthed a battered and well-worn copy of _The Lives of Hafter and Isulde_ – more romance than history, but compellingly readable. They were thoroughly immersed in Hafter’s battles against the Avvars and the Chasind when they were interrupted by a loud throat-clearing sound. Startled, they glanced up from the book to see the squat figure of Ser Nuala.

“Rory Trevelyan?”

Rory hadn’t heard their full name in years. In theory, one’s family name was completely irrelevant once one entered the Circle. Rory knew that some of their fellow apprentices still traded on their family connections, but had never tried to do so themselves. The notion of trying to invoke the Trevelyan name seemed faintly ridiculous, thoroughly baffling, and rather intimidating.

They realized that Ser Nuala was looking at them, clearly waiting for a response. “Ah, yes?”

“You have a visitor waiting for you downstairs in the drawing room.”

Rory stared blankly at the templar. A visitor? In their seven years in the Tower, this was unprecedented. Some of the other mages, favored by the Knight-Commander, met with visitors regularly, though always under templar supervision. But Rory was less favored than ignored, and rather grateful for that.

“Are you sure there isn’t some mistake?” Rory asked.

Ser Nuala frowned. A sharp line appeared between her eyes. “He asked for you specifically, and has the Knight-Commander’s permission to see you. Again specifically. But if you prefer that I tell him that you are unavailable, or that there must be some mistake, I will return to the drawing room and tell him to go.”

Could the visitor possibly be Simon? It seemed unlikely. Rory’s twin wouldn’t have the clout to sway the Knight-Commander, not having even reached his majority. And from everything Simon had written, the odds were strongly against their parents supporting such a visit.

Or could it be bad news? Had something, Maker forbid, befallen Simon? Rory tried to read Nuala’s face, but it was set and impassive.

“Shall I tell him to go?” she asked again.

Rory shook their head. If there was even a chance they would be sending Simon away… “I’ll see him.”

“So I supposed you would.”

Rory tucked the book aside and followed Nuala out of the library and downstairs. Their mind was racing through possibilities, coming up with ever more unlikely ones. Perhaps the visitor was one of the Grey Wardens, come back to conscript Rory into their service. Rory would have to give the Wardens Simon’s address, in that case – he was much more likely to be interested.

The drawing room was unfamiliar ground. The room was occasionally used by mages for after-dinner games and conversations, as well as for meeting guests, but Rory generally avoided those activities. A lanky, well-dressed boy was perched on the edge of an overstuffed chair, drumming his fingers impatiently against the table in front of him. As Ser Nuala and Rory entered, the boy leapt to his feet. Rory looked him over, taking in his dark skin, brown eyes, and untidy mop of reddish-brown hair. It was unnervingly like looking into a mirror.

“Simon?” Rory ventured.

Simon gave Rory a slightly unsteady grin. “Hey, Rory. I was starting to worry you wouldn’t come down and see me.”

Rory goggled at Simon. They had half-expected their brother to look the same as he did seven years ago, not this tall, muscular youth. “What are you doing here, Simon?”

Simon’s grin went a bit lopsided. “I wanted to see my twin brother. Is that so odd?”

 _Brother_ felt all wrong, like Simon had brought them an old coat that didn’t fit any more. Rory opened their mouth to say something about it, but no words came. _I can explain later, once I’ve thought about how to say it._

Simon was looking at them, his smile growing ever more uncertain. Rory realized they should respond. What had Simon just said? “No. No, it’s not odd. It’s good to see you, Simon.”

“It’s good to see you, too,” Simon said, a bit uncertainly.

“Did my last letter reach you? I haven’t had one from you in a few weeks.” Nearly a month, actually, but Rory didn’t want to sound like they were nagging Simon.

Simon looked at the floor. “Mother and Father pensioned Dermot off. They said I’m well enough educated, that I should focus on applying myself to martial training. It’s been harder to write, without his guidance.”

“I’m sorry,” Rory said. They barely remembered their childhood tutor, but they knew that Dermot’s encouragement had meant a great deal to Simon.

“Why don’t the two of you sit down?” Ser Nuala suggested, not unkindly. Rory jumped. They had managed to forget the templar was there. But they had been standing for quite a while, hadn’t they? As Simon sat back down, Rory settled into a chair across from him. Nuala took her own seat across the room.

Rory found themselves racking their brain for something to say. They were used to having hours to think over and compose a letter to Simon. Making conversation was not their strength, made worse by the awareness of Ser Nuala’s quiet observation.

Simon cleared his throat. “So, uh, this tower. It seems… really quiet.”

“It usually is, I guess,” Rory agreed. “I’ve gotten used to it. Loud noises usually mean something has gone wrong.”

“Something gone wrong? Like a fight?” Simon sounded a little intrigued by the prospect.

“No, no,” Rory said hastily. While they had heard some loud arguments, bringing that up in front of Ser Nuala didn’t seem prudent. “Usually a spell that didn’t quite work as planned, or the wrong ingredient going into a potion.”

“Oh,” Simon said. He was drumming his fingers on the table again. _Wonderful, I’m boring my brother. At this rate he won’t be back for another seven years_.

“Ah, how is the family?” Rory asked.

Simon snorted. “As awful –“ He glanced across the room at Ser Nuala. “Well, you know. Pretty much the same as ever.”

It was Rory’s turn to say, “Oh.”

Another pause. Rory remembered the question that had vexed them on their way down here. “I hadn’t thought you’d be allowed in to see me. How did you manage to arrange that?”

Simon bit his lip. “I had an audience with the Knight-Lieutenant here. Apparently I was sufficiently, ah, convincing that she helped me convince the Knight-Commander to allow it.”

Nuala gave a soft cough. Of course Simon must have spent a great deal of time studying rhetoric and argument, Rory thought. They felt a mild rush of envy toward their brother. Rory were fairly sure they would never be able to convince anyone of anything.

“Also, I let them know I had some news I needed to pass on to you.” Simon looked uncomfortable again, eyes drifting to the floor. “Ah… the healers weren’t able to help with Aunt Eileen’s sickness. She went to the Maker last month.”

Rory thought back. They remembered maps spread out on a table and conversations about books and their lessons. Try as they might, they couldn’t summon up a memory of their aunt’s face. They had never expected to see her again, but they felt they ought to be able to remember her face. Maybe someone had made a portrait of her?

“I’m sorry, Rory,” Simon said.

Rory had no idea what to say. They’d seen mages of the Circle grieve for other mages who had died since Rory came there, but only at a distance. They settled on, “Thank you, Simon.”

“She actually… I wasn’t expecting this, but she left half of her estate to each of us. Well, you can’t inherit, of course, so the family’s wrangling about your half.”

Rory blinked. It was strange to think of half an estate as something that could have been theirs. What could they possibly do with it? “Oh,” they said again.

“That was the other reason I was able to come see you. The inheritance made me a lot more convincing.”

“Lord Simon,” Nuala said from across the room. It sounded like a warning. Rory blinked again. They had read enough history to know that owning land was a measure of status. It made sense that having property of his own would mean Simon was taken more seriously. But why would Nuala object to Simon mentioning that?

“My apologies, Serah Templar,” Simon said. Rory didn’t think he sounded particularly sincere.

The twins sat and looked at each other for a few moments. Simon’s eyes wandered around the room until they lit on a chessboard set up on another table.

“Do you want to play chess?” Simon asked.

Rory’s eyebrows went up. “You still play?” For some reason, they had assumed that Simon abandoned the game after Rory went to the Circle.

“Now and then.”

“Me, too.” Though Rory had, in truth, spent more time reading books about the history and strategy of the game than actually playing. “I’d like to play.” The prospect sounded much more appealing than this awkward sitting, or thinking about Aunt Eileen’s death.

Rory began to suspect that Simon was understating his play time when he trounced Rory within two dozen moves.

“You may have forgotten some things during all your magical practice,” Simon said slyly. He pointed at Rory’s fallen king. “This is called your king. You’re supposed to _protect_ it.”

Rory had no particularly eloquent reply, so they settled for sticking out their tongue at Simon, who laughed. They set up the board again, continuing to banter, almost as if they were eight again and the last seven years had never happened. Rory was sure they weren’t making a positive impression on Ser Nuala, but to their surprise they didn’t care. What mattered was that, after all these years, Simon was there again. They would be able to see their twin again, and everything was all right.


	5. E is for Even and Emergence

**Simon: E is for Even**

Simon whistled as he started on his way back from the Circle, heading toward the family estate. It had been a good visit, they’d played chess again, while Rory talked about his studies and Simon talked about lessons in swordplay. For a year now, he’d been visiting Rory every couple of weeks, and every visit got more comfortable. No matter how long they’d been separated, how different their lives were, he and Rory were still twins. They shared that much, at least, and even the rules of the Circle couldn’t take that bond away from them. It was completely worth the monthly bribes to the templars. Good thing the local templars were susceptible to bribery, and good thing Aunt Eileen’s inheritance meant Simon _had_ the spare coin to spend on bribes.

“Well, now, what have we here?”

Simon stopped short at the sound of Alroy’s voice. Hell. He’d been stupid, and careless. He was used to making his way from the estate to the Circle and back without attracting much notice, but he should have been keeping a better watch. Usually, once he’d gotten clear of the templar lodgings outside the Circle tower, he could relax until he got close enough to the Trevelyan home to worry about some family retainer recognizing him and getting nosy. Being caught by Alroy was about a thousand times worse, though. Alroy, after all, didn’t have to take orders from Simon. Alroy must have started following him somewhere outside the tower; Simon was a little surprised he hadn’t noticed until now. Simon cursed himself for a fool, and again for reacting. It would have been better to pretend he hadn’t seen or heard Alroy at all—though, he supposed, his brother could have simply followed him all the way to the Trevelyan gates and _then_ confronted him.

But he _had_ stopped walking, and Alroy must have seen him, and that left him with few choices now. “Piss off,” he suggested.

“Don’t rightly think I will,” Alroy said, coming up beside Simon and folding his arms over his chest. He was out of armor, so he must be off-duty, but he was still doing his best to loom. Typical. “Where have you been?”

“Out.” Simon tried to resume walking, but Alroy poked him in the shoulder and got in his way.

“That’s not an answer. What are you doing here?”

Simon sighed. “What do you care, anyway?” The benefit of being the almost-youngest and least-important Trevelyan was that Mother and Father didn’t pay a great deal of attention to what he was about. He showed up for meals and events dutifully enough, and obviously he spent time in the practice yard and the stables, but the rest of his time was his own. He didn’t even have his old schoolroom lessons with Master Dermot any more to take up his hours. Of late, he’d been getting away from the estate more and more—practice and sparring with one of the local swordmasters, occasional rounds of drinks and cards. Mother hadn’t seemed to notice yet, preoccupied with Irene’s and Martin’s ongoing courtships. She was probably just as glad he was out from underfoot, if she did notice.

“I care if you’re smirching the family name,” Alroy said, getting in his way. “We’ve got enough embarrassing relations without you adding to their numbers.”

Simon set his teeth, irritated. Alroy always was a pompous ass, probably to butter up Mother. “You’re not even home any more. What I do is none of your affair.”

“I’m _making_ it my affair, little brother.” Alroy jabbed him in the chest.

Simon straightened slowly, eyes narrowing. As he reached his full height, he realized with a sudden surprise that Alroy’s head had to tip back as he did. His lips spread out into something like a grin. “Not so little any more, huh, Alroy?”

Alroy glared back at him, and shoved him again. “Doesn’t matter. I’m still your older brother.”

Simon shoved him back, and got the satisfaction of knocking Alroy back half a step. “Some brother _you_ are. All you ever do is push people around.”

“Someone has to keep you in line, you’ve always been a brat, you and your—” Alroy’s eyes suddenly widened. “ _That’s_ what you’re doing out here, isn’t it? I thought it was gambling or ale, but they keep the taverns out of this quarter.”

“Shut up,” Simon said, crowding into Alroy’s space, sending up a wild, hopeless prayer that Alroy hadn’t figured it out.

Too late. “You’re here for your _mage brat—_ ”

Simon swung. He connected, and the shock of it stung all the way up his arm. Alroy staggered, rubbing his jaw and staring at Simon. “Oh, that’s how it’s going to be? We’ll see about that.” He hit back, a wide swing that Simon dodged easily.

In all the years that Alroy had pushed Simon and Rory, sneering and needling and shoving and pulling and hitting, Simon had never hit him first. No matter how much he’d wanted to. He’d pushed back, plenty of times. When they were younger, Rory had seemed to think if they just curled up and pretended Alroy wasn’t there, he’d go away. Simon could never stand seeing Alroy knock Rory down, though, so he’d always tried to fight back. Once or twice he’d gotten a good hit in, but most of the time he’d been too small, not strong enough. They hadn’t really gotten into it in years, not since Alroy left home for proper templar training.

Now was totally different. Simon would almost have been surprised, how easy it was, if he’d had any thought to spare. But his world had narrowed to one furious point. He slammed Alroy back and punched him again, and rammed his knee into Alroy’s ribs. Alroy landed a couple of hits on Simon, too, but he hardly noticed. He knocked Alroy over in the heat of his assault, but Alroy managed to grab a handful of Simon’s jerkin and yank him down with him, and then they were rolling around in the street struggling in a frenzy of fists and kicks. Simon managed to get the upper hand, pinning Alroy down. He hit his brother once across the face, pulled his arm back for another swing... and froze.

Alroy’s eyes, looking up at his, were wide and shocked. Terrified, even. There was blood on his mouth, and trickling out of his nose. And now that Simon had noticed that, and had a moment to breathe, he realized several things. He was taller than Alroy now. He’d only noticed it that day, but it was true. He was taller, and simply bigger—he’d registered, at the back of his mind, that he had longer arms. Alroy’d been training with the templars, but apparently Simon’s own training was a match to it. He’d known that his own master had taught him more than a few dirty tricks, and their spars had included unarmed fighting as well as work with sword and shield. Some part of him was stunned, in spite of all that, that he’d taken down a trained templar so easily, but maybe Alroy had been equally surprised by Simon’s attack. “Back off,” he hissed. “Don’t say a word about this.” He had a sudden surge of worry that Alroy might say something to his own commanders, somehow prevent him from seeing Rory again—somehow, even, see Rory punished for it. No. Simon wouldn’t let that happen. “To _anyone_ ,” he added, glaring as hard as he could.

Alroy’s nod was brief, but it was good enough for Simon. He pulled back himself, and pushed himself to his feet. Now that he’d stopped, his own aches crept into his awareness. Sore fists, sore jaw, sore ribs. He wiped a hand across his face and realized he was probably bleeding, as well. Feeling guilty, he extended a hand.

Alroy ignored it, turning over onto his hands and knees and climbing up stiffly. He cast Simon a dark look over his shoulder. “Just tell me how you got into the Circle.”

“I’m not telling you anything.” Simon scowled at him. “And don’t ask questions about it, either.”

“Fine,” Alroy gritted out. “Not like I want to tell anyone my own little brother thrashed me.”

“You’ve had this coming for a long time,” Simon snapped. “How many times did you shove us around, knock us down?”

“We were kids.” Alroy shrugged.

Simon half-lunged toward him with a growl, and was rewarded when Alroy bolted away, eyes wide. “We’re not kids now,” Simon said. “So mind your own affairs, and stay out of mine, do you hear me?”

“Fine,” Alroy said again, more quietly, and stalked off. Slunk away, more like. Simon watched him go and continued on his way.

He was limping by the time he reached the gates to the family estate, but he managed to slip in without more than a couple of servants noticing. He got himself cleaned up enough to be passable at dinner, though Mother sniffed disapprovingly at the sight of his bruises, and Simon had to pass them off as the results of training.

Even though he’d just come from the Circle, he arranged another visit sooner than was ordinary, just to make certain he still could. Alroy had never been one to delay his revenge, so the fact that Simon was ushered in quite as usual was a great relief.

Rory took in Simon’s bruised face with widening eyes. “Are you all right?”

“Of course,” Simon said, choosing not to mention how the side of his face still ached.

“What happened?”

Simon put on a smile, glancing sideways at the dour templar watching over them. He couldn’t very well tell the whole truth here. “Just... settling an old score or two.”

 

 

**Rory: E is for Emergence**

Rory said their goodbyes to Simon and then practically skipped upstairs to the library. They’d been meaning to have this conversation for months, but for two visits had lost their nerve at the last minute, and for another had been distracted by Simon’s bruises. Finally, Rory had managed to explain to Simon how words like “he” and “brother” made them squirm.

Had Simon understood? Rory couldn’t say. They hardly understood it themselves. But Simon hadn’t turned away, had been supportive, had been careful to call Rory his “twin” as they parted – and that meant everything.

Rory wondered what the watching templar had made of the conversation. New to the Circle, he looked barely old enough to enter training, let alone be a full-fledged member of the Order. When Rory, feeling self-conscious, had glanced over at him, his face had betrayed no expression. What had been going on behind his startling blue eyes? And what was his name? Edan, Emir, something like that?

Rory glanced up just in time to realize they were about to with the mage standing in the middle of the hallway, head bowed. Rory recognized Blayne immediately even though his hood hid his features. He was such a fixture in the library that Rory knew the worn, patched robes and silver-chased staff intimately. But why was he standing out in the hall? “Senior Enchanter!” Rory gasped. “I’m so sorry!”

The head under the hood lifted to look at Rory. Rory screamed without thought. The flesh of Blayne’s face had melted and run like candle wax, pouring in rivulets down his chin and dangling in threads below it. The exposed bone below gleamed redly. But the eyes were the worst, transformed to glistening black orbs with orange-red sparks at their center. Rory staggered back, still crying out, raising their arms and trying to call fire.

“No, no, that won’t do at all,” the abomination said. Its voice was like Blayne’s, but stronger, louder, with a grating overtone to it that set Rory’s teeth on edge. It waved a red hand terminating in gleaming claws. Unseen hands seized Rory’s wrists and clamped over their mouth, cutting off their scream. A deathlike cold spread where the hands touched Rory, and they tasted blood in their mouth. They struggled fruitlessly. The grasp of the hands was strong as steel.

“Rory, is it?” the demon said slowly, savoring each word. “Yes, the pathetic apprentice who hides in the corner. Too much of a coward to plumb the depths of your potential. Worthless.”

Rory reached into their core for the fire. It burned angrily within, seeking to escape its confines. Unleashing it without a staff was hard, and without being able to move their hands it was harder still. But they had practiced this over and over. A gout of flame erupted from Rory’s hands and enveloped the thing that had been Blayne. It roared in pain or anger. Rory poured more heat into the fire, yearning for the thing to fall, for the hands pinning their arms to slacken. Instead, there was a blast of cold air that extinguished the fire, filled Rory’s lungs, and left them unable to do anything but gasp for breath.

“Ah, you do have some spirit,” the creature said approvingly. “I had thought to simply slaughter you, to discard your weak and worthless body. But with that fire in you? That would be a waste. One of my kind will harness that flame and walk the world in your shell.”

 _No_ , Rory tried to scream, but they could barely draw breath, and the spectral hand held their face like a vise.

“It’s a mercy, really,” the abomination purred. “What purpose could your life have had? You’d be another Blayne, poring through musty old tomes for years, looking for their secret. At least he found it in the end.” The creature’s face split in a bloody grin. “Or rather, he found me. I’m sparing you his wait. You’ll be reveling in blood and fire and the sweet scent of death while you’re still young.”

Rory’s mind raced through everything they’d read. How could they resist if a demon was summoned up to possess them? In _The Fade and Its Hazards_ , de Solis had suggested reciting the Chant to focus the mind and bring the power of Andraste to bear on the demon. Rory began to mentally recite the Canticle of Transfigurations. _These truths the Maker has revealed to me: As there is but one world, one life, one death…_

“You’ll meet your one death soon enough if you keep that up.”

Rory broke off their recitation in horror. _It’s in my head! How is it in my head?_

The nightmare reached one hand, red and dripping with gore, toward Rory’s cheek as if to caress it. Rory couldn’t even cringe away. The hand moved slowly, so slowly, the creature taking its time, drinking in Rory’s terror. Rory shut their eyes and tried to block it out. _These truths the Maker…_

Loud footsteps rang against the flagstones behind Rory. They heard a loud intake of breath, and then a shocked voice. “Maker’s bloody _balls_.”

Rory had never been glad to hear Ser Cadmus’s voice before. He’d probably stab _through_ Rory to kill the abomination, but that would still be infinitely preferable to being at its mercy.

Instead, Cadmus jostled roughly pass him and bashed his shield into the abomination. It staggered back, and Cadmus pursued it, dropping his shield and raising his sword to strike even as Ser Nuala yelled from behind Rory, “No! Cadmus, hold!” Rory couldn’t see the nightmare, not with Cadmus in the way, but they heard a grotesque ripping noise and a gurgling cry that was quickly cut off. Cadmus toppled backward against Rory, blood spraying from his throat and soaking Rory’s robes. The creature that had been Blayne stood atop the body, taloned hand wrapped in shadows, laughing madly.

“No!” Nuala cried out. Rory heard the sound of steel striking against stone, and a chill sensation passed over them, leaving the air charged in its wake. The shadows around the abomination’s hand winked out, and the hands holding Rory abruptly released their grasp. Rory fell hard, too dazed to catch themselves, and their hips met the stone in a jarring impact. Everything went gray for a moment.

When the scene cleared, Nuala and another templar were facing the abomination. Rory thought Nuala’s companion was the new templar, the one whose name he couldn’t remember. The demon hissed, raising its claws as if to ward off the templars, and Rory forced their mind to focus.

The templars’ armor might offer scant protection, given how the creature had cut through the armor at Cadmus’s throat. Force manipulation had never come as naturally as fire and ice, but Rory had stubbornly spent hours training with it. Shutting out the throbbing pain in their hips and arms, they brought magical barriers glimmering to life around the two templars just as the abomination lunged at Nuala. The barrier shimmered but held against its attack, and the creature howled in dismay.

Nuala pressed forward, slashing at the creature, slicing through the cold and shadow it called into being around itself. A tiny corner of Rory’s mind was fascinated to see templar magical suppression in action for the first time. They shut it out and poured all their effort into maintaining Nuala’s barriers. They wondered if calling fire or ice against the creature, but Nuala’s rites would probably disrupt those attacks as well.

It didn’t seem to Rory that Nuala’s ally was doing much, just working their way around the demon’s side. The demon’s attention was increasingly focused on Nuala, and more of its attacks found their way past her deflection to strike the magical barrier. Rory reached for more magic to keep up her defenses and found the well empty. The barrier fell, and the demon crowed in triumph as its claws reached out for Nuala…

And the other templar’s sword lashed out from behind the abomination and severed its head. The bloody face went slack as the head fell to the ground with a sickening crunch. The body swayed and collapsed, suddenly just a jumbled pile of gore and ruined robes.

Ser Nuala was panting for breath, but her voice was steady. “Well done, Emris.” _That_ was the name. “Stay with Rory and make sure they’re all right. I’ll rouse the rest of the templars. We’ll need to go through the tower and make sure this was the only one. Then we can see to poor Cadmus.”

“Yes, Knight-Lieutenant,” Emris acknowledged, but Nuala was already on her way.

Her words had reminded Rory that they were lying on to the floor next to two corpses. Getting up seemed as impossible as sprouting wings and flying to the top of the tower. They settled for wriggling and squirming away from the remains. Rory supposed Blayne’s remnants would also need to be “seen to.” The fire would doubtless take both mage and templar. It threatened to roar to life in Rory’s veins at the thought, and they clamped down their control to still it.

Ser Emris was staring at Rory, his expression unreadable. How must Rory’s motions across the floor look to him? “I’m not possessed,” Rory blurted.

Emris blinked.

“The demon said it wanted to possess me, but it didn’t. I’m not possessed.” Rory repeated insistently.

Emris blinked again. “I don’t think that anyone thought you were, Rory.” His voice was low-pitched and soothing.

“Oh,” Rory mumbled, feeling a rush of relief and embarrassment. Or was Emris only stalling until more templars could arrive? “I just need you to know that I’m me. It didn’t have time to call up a demon. You stopped it before it could…” Rory trailed off. “Thank you for that.”

Emris gave a nervous half-smile. “I never expected… Years of training for this, but everyone said Ostwick was such a quiet posting.” His eyes were distant. “If Nuala hadn’t been by my side, if you hadn’t shielded us.... I’d have suffered the same fate as Cadmus.” He gave the body a grim look.

“We both could have died here. Or worse,” Rory said shakily.

Emris extended a hand to Rory. After a moment’s hesitation, Rory took it, and Emris pulled them to their feet. “But we didn’t, Rory. And you’ll never have to face a horror like that again, not here. Even the…” He stopped abruptly.

Rory swayed a bit on their feet, catching themselves against the wall. They could feel tears coming, and Emris probably would not appreciate Rory sobbing into his tabard. “May I go to my quarters? I feel exhausted.”

“Or course. I’ll walk you up there to be sure you make it safely.” The templar touched Rory gently on the arm. “It will be all right, Rory.”

Rory spent a sleepless night, the vision of Blayne’s face before their eyes whenever they closed them, but they found surprising comfort in the memory of that touch.


	6. F is for Flirt and the Fade

**Simon: F is for Flirt**

Alix Percy was a beautiful girl: chestnut hair in curls, and green eyes, and a pert little nose. Simon noticed the last feature particularly, as he showed her around Ostwick, because she seemed determined that he should notice her profile, tilting her head into the right position nearly every time he looked at her. “Well, I think you’ve seen the sights of Ostwick now,” he said finally, with a laugh. She didn’t say anything right away, so he added, “I hope you enjoyed it?”

“It’s different,” she said, pursing her lips as she looked around. She had very full lips, and very long eyelashes. “I’ve not been to a port city before. Is it always so... fishy?”

Simon laughed, a little nervously. He supposed the air did smell of salt and fish, a little, but he didn’t tend to notice. Came of growing up in the city, he supposed. “Oh, you get used to it. Is there anything else you’d like to see?” He put on a hopeful smile.

She smiled back. “Anything else you’d like to show me?”

He tried to think as he held out his arm and let her take it. They’d been to everywhere he could think of — the Chantry, the market, the Teyrn’s gardens — and he certainly wasn’t taking her down to the harbor or any of the taverns. Irene would have his head. She’d been very specific: “ _Show her around, make sure she has a pleasant time, but no mischief of any kind._ ” His eldest sister was wound tighter than ever in the last couple of months, since her wedding preparations had begun in earnest. There was no way he was going out of his way to annoy her now. “So the groom’s a cousin of yours?” he said to Alix, to make conversation.

He only half-listened to her chatter about her family. Simon had enough problems keeping the hordes of Trevelyan cousins straight, let alone someone else’s. It seemed like nearly all of them were coming in for the wedding; the guest quarters of the estate were full to bursting, and as far he could tell, the relations were filling up the inns, as well. They weren’t letting Rory out of the Circle to attend, of course. Rory didn’t seem to mind, as far as Simon could tell, but Simon couldn’t see why a second-cousin-twice-removed got to attend and Rory didn’t.

He and Alix stopped along the way back to the estate to buy fried fish from a cart along the street; one of the best ways to eat Ostwick fish, fresh and hot, and he counted it a success when Alix giggled over it and even licked her fingers, eyes darting around as if someone would appear out of the crowd to scold her for it. “My mother would never,” she said, taking his arm again as they continued back to the estate.

“Nor mine,” Simon said cheerfully. “Some things it’s best she doesn’t know.”

Alix giggled again. She was holding on rather tightly, and it occurred to him as she tilted her head and peered up at him that she was flirting with him. That was an intriguing thought: quite a different prospect than chatting at court with one of the girls from Ostwick he’d known his whole life. And Alix really was quite pretty. He smiled at Alix and decided to enjoy it.

As they passed through the Trevelyan gate, he could hear the clash of practice weapons and glanced toward the training area in the courtyard. He recognized one of his father’s retainers, but not the red-haired youth sparring with him. Simon paused for a moment. “One of your relations?” he asked Alix, fairly sure the fellow wasn’t a Trevelyan.

“My brother,” she said, and called out, “Derek!”

Derek waved, and came over to them a minute later, leaving the practice weapons with the retainer. “Ho there, Alix, what have you been up to?”

“Seeing the city,” she said, and introduced them.

“Now which brother are you?” Derek asked, with a genial grin. He was as handsome as his sister. “The templar?”

Simon flinched at the idea of being mistaken for Alroy. “No, no, not at all. I’m the—” He hesitated, not sure how best to describe himself.

“Gentleman about town, then?” Derek suggested. He had green eyes, too, which sparkled as he smiled. “That’s much better. Templars do have their uses, but they’re so frightfully dull.”

Simon chuckled as the other two laughed. “That was some nice technique,” he ventured.

“Why, thank you.” Derek wiped the sweat off his forehead; Simon’s eye followed the long line of his arm. He wasn’t quite as tall as Simon, built leaner. “Archery’s my specialty, but I like to keep my hand in.”

“Ah, I see.” It certainly explained Derek’s impressive shoulders.

“And what’s your chosen weapon?” Derek crossed his arms and cocked his head.

Simon shrugged. “I prefer sword and shield, though I’ve trained with others.”

“Aha, I’m sure you could show me a thing or two, then.”

“We could practice sometime, if you like.” The wedding was still two days off, and Simon really didn’t have so many responsibilities before then.

“Isn’t it almost time for luncheon?” Alix asked. “Simon?”

There was a sharp note in her voice that brought home to Simon that he was being a little neglectful. He’d been detailed to entertain Alix, after all, not her brother. “Sorry,” he said, turning to her with a smile. “I’ll see you in.”

She sighed but smiled back. “If you’d be so kind.”

“I’ll see you there,” Derek called after them, cheerfully. “As soon as I get cleaned up.”

Much to Simon’s disappointment, Derek came in late enough to the meal that he was seated at the far end of the long table, down amid a cluster of Trevelyan and Percy cousins. Much too far away to speak to, although once cousin Philip William had decided to stand up on his seat and serenade them all with some romantic ballads, none of them could hear themselves talk in any case.

Simon had hoped to catch Derek after luncheon, but instead Mother found him and hustled him off for another fitting (as if he might have changed size in the last week), and then he got roped into helping select horses for the wedding party’s procession, and between one thing and another on Irene’s endless list of chores, Simon didn’t find himself with a free moment to go out to the training yard until the next afternoon. Fortunately, Derek was there, loitering about the training dummies, and flashed a smile when he saw Simon. “I was hoping I’d find you here.”

“I’ve hardly had a moment all day,” Simon offered by way of apology. “Shall we give this a go?”

“By all means,” Derek said, a glint in his eye.

They took up practice swords and shields and faced off. They started by feeling each other out, tests and feints; after a little while they started trading heavier and faster blows. Derek was quick on his feet, but Simon noticed that he tended to drop his shield, leaving an opening, so Simon pressed the advantage. Derek grunted as he hastily raised the shield to block, and then he was off-balance, and when Simon smashed into him with his own shield, Derek staggered, almost bumping into the wall. He was still recovering while Simon brought his sword up and aimed the blunt wooden edge at Derek’s throat. “Yield?” asked Simon with a grin.

Derek dropped his shield immediately and leaned against the wall. “Gladly. You’re far better than I am.”

Simon lowered the practice sword. “I don’t know about that.”

“With sword and shield, at least,” Derek added with a grin. He tilted his head with a measuring look. His hair was darkened with sweat, and Simon watched a bead of moisture travel along the side of Derek’s throat. He smelled of sweat and leather and something pleasantly masculine, and they were standing quite close together.

Simon swallowed, unsure whether to take a step back. “Did you have something else in mind?”

Derek smiled again, his lips parting, when they both clearly heard the bell ringing the hour. “Hell,” Derek said. “We’d both best be clean and decent before dinner, hadn’t we?”

“Right.” Simon stepped back, aware of a certain tightness in his breeches.

He was the one to come down late for dinner, this time, and was just as glad to land some distance away. With so many people at dinner, he could avoid Alroy, too, and even Alix, with a flush of guilt. The early hour of the wedding gave him an excuse to retire early, though he slept poorly enough that night, trying to sort out what he thought about the whole thing.

The wedding procession and ceremony themselves were interminable, no expense and no bit of ritual spared. Simon stood stiffly in his new suit of clothes, his mind wandering as the Revered Mother droned on for what seemed like hours. Simon was quite glad for Irene, she actually quite seemed to like her betrothed, but was it really necessary to blather on so long about the duties and responsibilities of marriage? Simon’s eye wandered across the crowd, and he spotted Derek suddenly, red hair bright among the guests, looking straight at Simon.

Derek was the one to seek him out after the ceremony, while the musicians and guests were still gathering for the ball. “There you are,” said Derek, and Simon straightened hastily from where he’d been leaning against a pillar — a little out of sight, lest Alroy or Mother or Irene spot him and find something for him to do.

“Sorry,” he said, self-conscious. Derek’s green doublet, in his family colors, looked quite nice on him.

“No need,” Derek said. “Quite the ceremony, eh?”

Simon snorted. “Only the best for my sister.”

Derek smiled a crooked smile. “That’s very flattering to my cousin, you know.”

Simon laughed, and Derek laughed, too, a warm, delightful sound, and Simon found himself smiling down at Derek when they were done. Probably foolishly, and his heart was beating a little fast.

“Listen,” said Derek, leaning closer, “do you mind if I...?”

“Hm?” Simon replied.

The kiss was both startling and not, warm and firm and soft all at the time. Simon blinked when Derek drew back and looked at him. “ _Did_ you mind?”

It took no time at all to decide that. “No,” Simon said, and kissed him again.

They broke apart, cringing, as the music started up — Philip William again, “with a very special song for the bride and groom, ladies and gentlemen!”

“Do you know anywhere quieter around here?” Derek asked.

Simon nodded, and led the way toward the door. They’d nearly made their way clear, dodging a few servants, when they heard Alix calling her brother’s name behind them.

“Derek! Where are you—”

Derek looked as though he would have kept moving, but Simon stopped, mindful of his manners, trying his best to smile at Alix’s exasperated look.

“You’re leaving? Truly?” she said.

“I do beg your pardon—” Simon began, feeling sheepish. She was a very lovely and pleasant girl, after all, and it was awfully rude to disappear on her.

She held up a hand to stop him. “I should have expected this, really. No one can resist Derek, after all.”

Her brother chuckled at the look she gave him. “Alix, dearest sister, would you be a darling and—”

“I’ll cover for you,” she said. “For a _short_ while, mind you, and you’d better be presentable when you come back, because I want a turn on the dance floor.”

“That only seems fair,” Simon said, hardly believing his luck.

Alix nodded firmly and turned back toward the dance floor. Derek and Simon exchanged glances. “Shall we, then?” Derek said. “Briefly?”

His smile was all but blinding. Simon grinned back as they left the room.

 

 

**Rory: F is for the Fade**

The time had come for Rory’s Harrowing. Silent and ominous, the templars escorted Rory through the looming halls. Down and down they went, below the tower cellars, into levels so deep Rory hadn’t known they existed. The last flight of stairs led down into a vast ritual chamber. Lines of mages and templars stood facing each other, heads bowed. Rory’s escorts brought them into the center of the group, where a small basin was filled with shimmering blue lyrium.

No one spoke. Rory stared at the mages and templars as they slowly raised their heads. Rory tried to scream but could not make a sound. The mages’ faces melted and ran, like Blayne’s had, and the templars raised their helms to expose white, hollow skulls. Mocking laughter echoed across the room as the two lines closed on Rory. Desperately, Rory tried to flee, but some great force held them fast, and the laughter grew louder as the demons closed in…

Rory jerked awake in a sweat to the sound of metal-shod feet striking stone. Hadn’t this already happened, the templars coming to collect them? No, that had only been the dream. Rory feigned sleep as a metal-clad hand drew back the curtain.

“Apprentice Rory, you are to come with me.” A deep voice, and not a familiar one – probably one of the templars who the new Knight-Commander had brought.

Rory let their eyes open and sat up on the cot, faking a yawn which promptly became real. “What is it?” Rory asked blearily, determined to show no sign that they knew what was happening. Emris had risked much by warning Rory about the Harrowing, and they were determined not to put their friend at further risk. Rory had not expected to fall asleep at all, and now they grasped desperately for their wits.

“The time has come for your Harrowing,” the templar said.

Rory had decided not to pretend ignorance of the ritual’s existence. Their fellow apprentices seemed to gossip about it all the time, even if they didn’t have Rory’s advantage of knowing details. Rory was fairly sure none of the other apprentices their age had gone through it.

The templar took hold of Rory’s arm in a rough grip, not quite strong enough to bruise. Rory was led, not to the secret chamber of their dreams, but to the ritual room on the fifth floor of the tower. It was familiar ground to Rory, but they had never seen it so dimly lit, with only two torches burning. A half-circle of men and women surrounded a basin lit with a soft blue glow.

First Enchanter Raina, standing directly opposite Rory and limned by the azure light, appeared to be the only mage present. She was flanked by Ser Tanner, the new Knight-Commander, his expression unreadable behind his long black beard, and Ser Nuala, looking vaguely disquieted. Four more templars completed the ring, all helmed and unrecognizable in the dim light. Rory shuddered at the memory of grinning skulls beneath helmets.

Rory’s escort led them into the half-circle and stepped aside to join their fellows. Knight-Commander Tanner looked over Rory, who stared down at the floor. They’d had little opportunity to interact with the new Knight-Commander, or, for that matter, with his now-retired predecessor. But Emris had whispered that Ser Tanner was set on finding some misbehaving mage to serve as an example to the rest of the Circle. An example of what, Rory was not sure.

“’Magic exists to serve man, and never to rule over him.’ Thus spoke the prophet Andraste,” the Knight-Commander intoned. “Your magic may be a gift that will serve man, but it poses a danger as well. Demons of the Fade will be drawn to you, and seek to use you as their gateway into this world.”

Rory was well aware of this, especially after Blayne, but listened respectfully, supposing the words to be part of the ritual.

“This is why the Harrowing exists,” the First Enchanter added, her voice so soft that Rory had to strain to hear her. “You will be sent into the Fade. There, you must face a demon, armed with only your will.”

“Know this, apprentice,” Ser Tanner said. “If you fail, we templars will perform our duty. If the demon accompanies you on your return from the Fade, you will die.” He seemed to relish delivering the warning. Rory swallowed, hard. “There is an alternative, apprentice. If you do not wish to enter the Fade, the Rite of Tranquility can be invoked.”

“That’s not…” Ser Nuala blurted out, looking alarmed.

“Silence, Knight-Captain!” Ser Tanner ordered.

Rory had given some consideration to choosing the Rite of Tranquility since Emris had first described the Harrowing. The Tranquil were pleasant to spend time with, not concerned with gossip, or status, or relationships. Their existence seemed peaceful. But Simon and Emris would be horrified to know that Rory had even considered it, and Rory could not stomach the notion of feeling nothing for their brother and their friend. Rory said, “I would choose the Harrowing.” Their voice betrayed them, coming out as a squeak.

“So be it,” the Knight-Commander intoned. “First Enchanter, bring him through.”

Rory had no courage to spare for correcting the Knight-Commander’s pronoun usage. Raina glided forward to take their arm in a feather-light grip. For the first time, Rory realized that she would not be First Enchanter much longer. At her guidance, Rory stepped forward, toward the lyrium basin

“You must reach out to it,” Raina whispered, and released Rory’s arm. Rory took the last few steps to the basin. For a moment, they could almost hear the lyrium, like a choir of distant voices. Then Rory reached out their hand and blue light burst across it, so bright that their eyes snapped shut against the glare. They opened them to find themselves in another place entirely.

 _So this is the Fade_. Rory stood at the base of a small tower built of some unfamiliar dark stone. Around them, the ground rose and dipped in undulating curves, falling away entirely in several directions. They looked for the Black City and found it after a moment, hanging on the horizon, remote but visible.

“And so is the Golden City blackened with each step you take in my Hall,” Rory murmured. “Marvel in perfection, for it is fleeting.”

They took a step forward. The ground was not quite firm underfoot, giving Rory the uncomfortable feeling of walking across some giant creature’s skin. They shuddered. The doorway of the tower in front of them was open, and the floor within looked like normal stone. Rory resolved to start looking for the demon there.

The Fade stretched wide around Rory, seeming to mock them with its expanse. What if Rory couldn’t find the demon? Emris had given them a warning. _If you’re gone too long, the Knight-Commander may declare you lost and order your body slain._ It occurred to Rory that the Knight-Commander himself had given no warning of this. Rory knew which templar they trusted.

Rory walked gingerly across the yielding ground and stepped inside the tower. The interior was ringed with statues painted in bright, lurid hues. Rory slowly turned to look them all over. This was the Fade – one of them might be a demon in hiding. Nothing seemed amiss until they turned back to the first statues and were struck with the conviction that their expressions had changed while Rory was looking away.

This was the land of dreams. Could they exert their will on the statues in the same way they would command fire or ice? “Stop that,” Rory said, and tried to reach out with their mind. They couldn’t tell if it had any effect. _Stop wasting time_ , they thought, and ascended the stairs.

Rory gasped at the sight of the second floor. It was open the twenty or so feet up to the roof, and bookcases extended from floor to ceiling, stuffed with pristine-looking tomes. Ladders between the bookshelves gave access to the full contents of the room. A long table and two comfortable-looking chairs were placed in the center of the room held a long table and two comfortable-looking chairs. A white cat was curled up on the table, watching Rory intently.

“Uh… hello, kitty,” Rory said. Cats made them a little nervous. They’d seen how efficiently the Circle’s cats could dispatch mice and rats. And who knew what a cat could be in the Fade?

“Greetings, Rory,” the cat said in a pleasant female voice. The hairs on Rory’s arm stood on end. Had they found the demon they sought?

The cat sneezed delicately. “The Fade is home to a panoply of beings. I am a spirit, dedicated to knowledge and wisdom. In this, we are kin. I wish only to aid you.”

Rory had read a score of books about the dangers and temptations of the Fade. “Let me guess. I need only allow you to accompany me to the waking world, and you will unlock knowledge beyond my wildest dreams.”

The cat let out a low growl. “To enter your world would be to let your mages and templars shape me with their thoughts. I have no need of it. So much that is lost there can be found here. You wish to read the lost second and third volumes of _A Master’s Notes on Resonances_?” It tilted its head upwards. “There they lie, on that shelf.”

“I see,” Rory said. The thing would not need to fight or possess them. It could simply keep Rory occupied until the templars give them up for lost.

The hair on the cat’s back went up. “Poor little thing,” it hissed at Rory. “Full of so much fear, friend and foe blur in your eyes.”

A roar like thunder sounded from outside the tower, accompanied by a sharp, smoky scent like damp wood on a fire. “What is that?” Rory asked.

“Most likely the demon that your _friends_ have drawn here to devour you,” the cat said smugly. “If you reconsider your rudeness, I will share the secrets of defeating it.”

“No! I’ll take none of your deals!” Rory let fire burst from their palms and loosed it at the cat. Hissing, it darted underneath a bookcase, and the flames danced across the table. Rory reined in the hungry flames before they could start feasting on the wood. At the sound of another thunderous roar, Rory whirled around.

A hunched, livid form, alive with flames, flowed up the stairs toward Rory. It had no visible limbs, but two dark coals for eyes and a gaping mouth that belched hot gases as it roared. Rory let the fire go out, reaching for winter’s cold to shield them against the heat.

“I am rage!” the demon bellowed, sending flames licking toward Rory. “I am fury! Let me within you, and I will loose your wrath upon the world.”

“I’m not angry at the world,” Rory said.

“How can you not be angry? So much denied you! Abandoned by your family, trapped within a tower, surrounded by templars waiting for the chance to spit you on a sword. You must want to see them all burn!”

“You don’t understand me at all, demon,” Rory said. They felt oddly calm.

“I understand that you are weak!” the demon roared. “If you won’t take what’s yours, _I_ will take it, from you and from them!” It sent a roaring gout of flame at Rory.

“Ice,” Rory said softly, forming the cold around their hand into a frozen shield that scattered the burst of fire. They countered with a pulse of frigid air. The demon slowed and struggled to move forward as the freezing air engulfed it.

“Puny mortal! You cannot stand against my fury!”

Rory called on more cold. Tiny icicles formed on their fingers as icy air whirled more and more furiously around the demon. It was barely moving now, frozen in a rictus of anger.

“Lost child of the Maker, return to him,” Rory said quietly, and launched a spear of ice into the core of the demon. It gave a piteous wail and collapsed, turning coal-black as the fires burning across it went out.

Light flared abruptly around Rory, blinding them. Rory raised their hands to defend themselves, but when their vision cleared they were back in the Circle. An armored templar with blade bared was standing alarmingly close. Rory quickly lowered their hands and stammered, “It’s me, just me. I’m not possessed.”

There was a moment of silence. Rory’s pulse pounded in their ears; this was somehow worse than facing the demon. But Raina said lightly, “The apprentice speaks the truth. There’s no demon within this body.”

Ser Nuala let out a soft sigh of relief, and the corners of her mouth quirked up, but Ser Tanner frowned. _He’s disappointed_ , Rory thought, and the notion sent the frigid cold still banked within them through all their veins. But the Knight-Commander regained his composure so quickly that Rory thought they might have imagined it.

The Knight-Commander regained his composure quickly enough that Rory wondered if they’d imagined what they’d seen in his face. “Then, Rory, you are an apprentice no longer, but an Enchanter of the Circle. Congratulations. The Senior Enchanters will instruct you in your duties on the morrow.”

Raina extended a hand toward Rory, palm up, holding something that gleamed faintly in the light. “The silver in this ring is infused with lyrium, as your body is infused with magic. Wear it as a reminder of the trial you have passed.” She swayed on her feet as Rory took the ring from her, and Ser Nuala stepped forward to lend her an arm.

“Speak of the Harrowing to no one, on pain of the most severe punishment,” Ser Tanner added. “Ser Hannah will escort you back to your room.”

Rory might have wished for Emris or Ser Nuala as an escort, but at least Ser Hannah, while not much given to conversation, was a templar they had known for years. The trip back to their chamber passed in silence, but Rory’s mind was racing. They had passed the test! They had proven, to themselves and to the Circle, that they could stand against a demon.

#

Three days went by before Rory and Emris had a chance to discuss the Harrowing. Rory was startled by a tap on the shoulder while searching the shelves in the library. Rory gave an undignified yelp and whirled to face Emris, who gave Rory a crooked smile. He was out of armor, clad simply in a brown tunic and breeches. His short-cut brown hair was unkempt, as if he’d come straight to Rory after removing his helmet.

“So how are you finding life as an Enchanter?” Emris asked.

“Not too different, except for dodging apprentices who want to dredge information about the Harrowing out of me.”

Emris snorted. “Truly a glorious existence.” His forehead creased, and his tone grew more serious. “And you’re… all right? Recovered from the Harrowing?”

“I hardly felt harrowed at all,” Rory said. “I’m so grateful that you let me know what to expect.” There went their voice, getting all squeaky again.

“It was just… it was harder than I thought, watching you go into the Fade,” Emris said softly.

“I couldn’t tell if you were there,” Rory admitted.

“Yes. Rory, the Knight-Commander had charged me with the blade. It would have fallen to me to strike you down if you had… I knew you wouldn’t let that happen, but while you were gone, it was all I could think…”

“Hey.” Rory reached out tentatively and caught Emris’s arm. “It’s all right. I’m all right.”

“I just…when I thought of losing you…” Emris’s lip trembled.

Rory’s attention was focused on the trembling lip. A force pulled them forward, implacable as any magic. “Everything is all right,” they repeated, and leaned in to kiss Emris.

“Ow,” Emris protested.

Rory had forgotten their spectacles, which now sat askew on their nose. Rory carefully folded them and set them on the shelf. “May I try that again?”

“Please do,” Emris said softly, leaning his face in to meet Rory’s. His lips were warm and soft, with a faint metallic taste.

After too short a time, they broke apart. “I should go,” Emris said, sounding pained. “I’ll be missed if I’m not back. Can we… do this again?”

“Yes,” Rory breathed. Being an Enchanter _was_ different, after all.

 


	7. G is for Gasp and Gentleman

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As of this chapter, we've increased the rating for the work to Mature.

**Rory: G is for Gasp**

“Are you ready?” Emris asked between heavy breaths.

“Yes?” Rory said uncertainly. They weren’t sure what “ready” was supposed to consist off, aside from hiking up their robes, dropping their smallclothes, and bracing themselves against the wall. The library, while full of instructions and insight into so many things, had proved lamentably short of information about their planned activities.

“Remember, if this isn’t working for you, just tell me to stop,” Emris said.

“You’ve told me that four times,” Rory pointed out. Every repetition after the first had only made Rory more anxious.

Emris said, “Sorry,” and took hold of Rory’s hips. Rory controlled an impulse to flinch away at the touch. They wanted so badly to be able to do this for him…

Rory felt a touch and heard Emris gasp; then, Emris was pushing his way in. It was a strange sensation but not a terribly unpleasant one. _I can do this_ , they thought, trying to relax, not to tense up.

Then Emris pushed further and pain stabbed through Rory. An anguished cry broke from their lips.

Emris pulled back immediately. “Rory? What is it?” he asked, voice full of horror. “Oh, Maker, you’re bleeding!”

Rory moaned. “I don’t know. Was I doing something wrong?” They twisted around to see Emris pulling up his breeches. “We can try something else…”

Emris was frowning. “We need to go. If anyone heard you and comes to investigate…”

“I’m so sorry,” Rory said miserably.

“You don’t need to be.” Emris was standing there, an uncertain look on his face.

“You need to go. I understand.”

Emris pulled open the door to the hallway and looked around. “No one here. Rory, I’m…”

“Go!” Rory said from between gritted teeth.

Emris opened his mouth, closed it, and disappeared through the door. Rory pulled up their smallclothes, straightened their robe, and waited a moment for Emris to get clear, then headed out the same exit. The pain was less severe, but it was still uncomfortable to move. After a moment’s thought, they ducked into the neighboring storeroom and scavenged some bandages to stuff into the back of their smallclothes.

No one came to investigate. Apparently, the stone walls had been thick enough to muffle the sound of Rory’s yell. They sat down gingerly on an old wooden barrel and brooded.

How were they going to be able to give Emris what he wanted?

Rory didn’t mind touching him where he liked being touched, even if Rory sometimes did catch themselves thinking about their reading or lab work while Emris moaned and gasped. But Emris wanted Rory to find release too, and Rory… had to admit they really didn’t want Emris’s hands, or anyone’s, touching them there.

And it seemed like they were running out of other things to try. It certainly wasn’t as if either of them had someone to ask for advice. Even the notion of trying to talk to any of their fellow mages about sex made Rory turn beet red – never mind the danger if the templars learned about them.

They suspected that Simon might be more knowledgeable on the topic, but with a templar always watching their conversations, there was no way to discuss it. Even if they waited until Emris was the templar observer, Rory knew they wouldn’t be able to raise the issue in front of him. Any letter to Simon was likely to be read by the templars. It was just no use.

The bell for the midday meal rang. Going downstairs had little appeal. Rory didn’t really feel hungry, and they had no desire to deal with people. But they had learned that the time before the evening meal was long and the cooks unwilling to give out food between meals. Struggling to decide, they stood up and sat back down three times before finally forcing themselves out the door and down the stairs to the refectory.

They felt exposed walking into the common room, as if every mage could clearly see what they and Emris had been at. They were gathered around the longest table in the room, engaged in a lively conversation. Clearly some juicy piece of gossip had recently arrived at the Tower. Rory sat down carefully at a separate table and tried to clear their head.

They had no interest in the conversation, but could not help hearing it anyway. “My sister said she’d never seen such a lavish expense on a cremation ceremony.”

“And all without a body to actually cremate?”

“She thought the pomp and circumstance was the Trevelyans’ way of compensating for that.”

Rory was on their feet immediately, rushing into the gathering of mages. “Who died?” Rory demanded breathlessly.

Elara asked, “I thought you were above caring about such mundane things, Rory?” There was scattered tittering around the table which slowly died in the face of Senior Enchanter Liann’s frown.

From down the table, Rion stage whispered, “Remember, our Rory’s a Trevelyan, for all that they never mention it.”

“Who died?” Rory repeated in a yell.

One of the apprentices – Rory couldn’t remember her name – answered, “I’m sorry. It was one of the younger Trevelyan sons, my sister said.”

Rory wheeled to face her. “Who was it? Please, you have to tell me.”

“I don’t know,” the apprentice said nervously, “they didn’t say. I think he drowned? Some sort of accident, anyway.”

There was a buzz of renewed talk around the table, but Rory couldn’t hear it over the roaring in their ears. They reached out a hand to balance themselves on a chair. Simon had mentioned spending time down at the docks, but Rory couldn’t remember if he’d learned to swim. Alroy definitely knew how to swim, didn’t he?

Everyone’s eyes were on Rory, and it was too much to bear. They left the refectory at a run, stairs and hallways passing in a blur. As if in a dream, they found themselves in the chapel. The single templar on guard stood by silently as Rory fell on their knees before the statue of Andraste and began to pray.

_Don’t let it be Simon. Please, please, don’t take my brother away from me. I can’t… Without Simon and Emris, I’d be all alone…_

Rory swayed as the timing of the news hit them. _Is this my fault? Punishment for violating the Circle’s laws?_

_Emris and I – I knew we violated the Templar Order’s rules against fraternization. But those are the rules of men – there’s nothing in the Chant about them. I would never have gone against your laws._ Was that just splitting hairs, like Simon trying to get out of an accusation of wrongdoing?

_If what I’ve done was wrong – please, let me bear the consequences. Don’t punish my brother for my actions._ Too late, too late, they thought. The cremation ceremony had already been held. If Simon had drowned, only a miracle would bring him back now.

_Andraste, I beseech you. Don’t let Simon be dead._

They were still kneeling in prayer hours later when a hand fell on their shoulder. Rory jerked, startled at the touch, and looked up at the bearded face of Ser Tomos, one of the younger templars.

“Enchanter Rory, your brother’s here to see you,” Tomos said.

“Brother! Which brother?” Rory exclaimed. Tomos only shrugged. Rory’s mind raced – if Simon had died, would any of their other brothers think to notify them? Alroy certainly wouldn’t, but they supposed Martin might… They had to get to the drawing room and find out. They rose to their feet, groaning as their knees cracked and ached, and strode stiffly toward the door, followed by Ser Tomos.

Rory’s heart was pounding like a hammer on an anvil. As their knees loosened, Ser Tomos’s pace seemed unnecessarily plodding. Rory managed to stay by his side until the door to the drawing room was in sight. They could no longer restrain themselves and broke into a run, heedless of Tomos’s yell of protest.

And in the room, he found Simon sitting in the chair.

Rory ran to their brother and threw their arms around him. Simon sat startled for a moment, then returned the embrace, patting Rory’s back a little awkwardly. “Rory, Rory, it’s all right. What’s the matter?”

Rory released him and stepped back. “Oh Simon, thank the Maker! I thought you were dead, they said you’d drowned.” Tears welled up in their eyes.

“Me?” Simon asked, puzzled, as Tomos came in the door behind Rory and dropped, panting, into a chair. “Oh, no, it’s Alroy who drowned.”

“Alroy?”

“We had word a week ago. The ship he was on struck a rock and went down. Apparently he died something of a hero – saved one of his fellows and went back for another.” Simon made a sour face.

Rory felt like they ought to feel something for Alroy, but all they could feel was a rush of relief. “I’m sorry,” they said automatically. “But I’m so, so glad that it wasn’t you.”

“I’m alive. The only danger I face is joining the Templar Order,” Simon said, still sounding sour. “No offense,” he added, nodding in the direction of Ser Tomos.

“Joining the templars?” Rory wasn’t sure what to think about that. It was a respectable profession, noble even. But would it suit Simon? And would he even be allowed to see Rory if he were a templar?

“Mother came to me a few days ago and said they’d offered a dispensation, to take me in for training even though I’m too old. She went on and on about how we’ve always had a templar in the family, and this is my chance to make something of myself.” Simon rolled his eyes.

“Do you want to be a templar?” Rory asked.

“Maker’s breath, no!” Simon roared. “Uh, no offense.”

“You said that already,” Ser Tomos noted, his tone droll.

“Honestly, can you imagine me as a templar?” Simon asked.

Rory closed their eyes and tried to picture Simon leading the regimented, disciplined life of a templar, following orders without question. Then they looked at their brother as he slouched in his chair, looking rather untidy and undisciplined. “No,” they admitted.

“Well, there you are,” Simon said with an air of vindication. “So I’m not going to do it.”

“How will Mother and Father take that?”

“Very poorly, I suspect. I’m guessing they’ll throw me out of the house. But I have my own means of support, thanks to Aunt Eileen and Lionel. I’ll make my own way.”

_Will you stay in Ostwick?_ It seemed too selfish to ask. “What will you do?” they asked instead.

“The Grand Tourney’s coming up in Tantervale,” Simon said. “I was going to fight in it anyway, but now, it’ll be my escape. Once I make my name there, I’ll have no shortage of opportunities.”

Most of which would doubtless be far away from Ostwick. “I see,” Rory said.

Their expression was not lost on Simon. He exclaimed, “Don’t worry, Rory, I’ll still come and see you! More often than I’d be able to as a templar, with the Order making me dance to their tune. No offense.”

“I’m beginning to take some,” Tomos said in a perfectly pleasant tone.

“Ah, sorry. It’s been a hard week.” He directed a charming smile at Tomos. “What news do you have, Rory?”

_I’m sleeping with a templar and I’m not sure I like it._ Well, that would make Tomos’s day a lot more exciting. Rory shrugged. “Nothing much new. Just trying to work out my future, too, I suppose.”

“Just remember,” Simon said, leaning forward and looking into the eye, “you don’t have to let anyone tell you what you should do, or the way you’re supposed to be. If I… if I’m not able to come see you for a while, I want to know that you’re happy.”

Rory stared back at Simon, who looked away after a few moments. How had he answered Rory’s unvoiced questions?

“I should go back to training,” Simon said, a little awkwardly. “I want to be as ready as I can for the Grand Tourney.”

“Thank you for coming,” Rory told him earnestly. “I look forward to hearing about your victories. If you can’t come back soon, could you write? Even a short letter.”

“I will,” Simon said, and they said their goodbyes. Ser Tomos escorted Rory out of the drawing room.

Rory went to find quill and paper. Writing a note would be dangerous, but they didn’t trust themselves to be able to say what needed to be said face to face. It was going to be difficult enough to write it down.

The library was quiet. Rory sat in their preferred chair, dipped the quill, and began to write.

_Emris,_

_I can’t do this anymore._

 

 

**Simon: G is for Gentleman**

Simon sat in his favorite tavern staring into his mug of ale and contemplating his fate.

“Cousin Simon! What are you doing here?”

“Hiding,” he said shortly, and blinked up at the face smiling at him from under a plumed hat. After a moment, he recognized the face as belonging to Philip William Trevelyan, his... second cousin? Third? Simon couldn’t remember, and didn’t care enough to try. There were other Philips in that branch of the family already, at least three. Simon was fairly sure one of them was Philip William’s father, hence him always using both his given names. Simon added belatedly, “Ph’william. What’re _you_ doing here?”

Philip William laughed and sat down at Simon’s table, even though Simon hadn’t asked him to. “A gig here, a gig there,” he said carelessly, and waved to the barmaid. “Another round for my cousin!”

Simon groaned and slouched in his seat, pulling his aching arm closer to his side. “That’s all right, I don’t—”

“Nonsense, I’ll not let a kinsman drown his sorrows alone! What’s the matter, cousin? Do we drink to dear departed Alroy tonight?”

Simon grimaced. He supposed it made him a terrible brother, but Alroy’s death was more of an inconvenience to him than anything else. He wouldn’t even have mourned much if Alroy’s death _hadn’t_ been an inconvenience. Perhaps that made him a wretched brother, too.

“Orrrr not,” said Philip William, who’d always been a little too canny, after all. “A broken heart, then? Some lively lass or lad turned you down? Was it that handsome Percy lad? Or, didn’t I hear a rumor about you and the Darrow girl...”

“You certainly did not,” said Simon, who had never been involved with any of the Darrow girls. He knew better than to fool around with girls from a family as pious as that. Derek Percy... well, that was another story entirely, just a bit of fun, really. He gave his cousin a sharp look, but Philip William hadn’t badgered him yet about Edwin Delacorte, or about the good-looking guard lieutenant, so maybe the wagging tongues weren’t as up to date as he’d feared.

“Why the long face, then? Come on, tell your good cousin all about it.”

Simon rolled his eyes at that, but at least Philip William cared, or pretended to. He’d bought more ale, and that was as good as caring. No one else seemed to give a hang what Simon liked or wanted. Except Rory, of course, but Rory couldn’t do anything in that damned tower. Simon sighed and swigged down half the mug to fortify himself. “The Grand Tourney starts in five days.”

“I know! I’m on my way there myself, as it happens. Plenty of cheer to be had there. New songs to sing, new heroes to celebrate, it’s just the place to be.” Philip William grinned.

The ale Simon had drunk seemed to sour in his stomach. “I was supposed to be there.”

Philip William’s eyes fell to Simon’s arm in its bandages and sling. He winced, sliding back in his chair. “Ahh! Bad luck, old man!”

Simon nodded wordlessly and drank.

“What happened?”

“Riding accident.” Of all the stupid things. Simon hadn’t taken a spill like that in years. He knew how to handle a horse, even a warhorse. He’d only been practicing passes for the melee at the Grand Tourney, maneuvers they’d done a hundred times before. One careless step, his mind not on his task, and he’d been tumbled to the ground at a bad angle, and that was that, shield arm out of commission. He couldn’t help but blame Alroy, even though the latter had been dead for a fortnight already. His passing had set the whole household in such a ferment that Simon had been rattled, not concentrating like he should have been, and he’d paid for it. Blasted Alroy.

The arm wasn’t even the worst of it. Oh, it hurt, right enough. Still ached, in spite of the healer’s best efforts. Magical healing could help set a bone, but it would still take weeks for the arm to be right again, and then weeks more to build the muscle back up. But no, a few weeks ago, breaking his arm and missing the Grand Tourney would have been no more than a disappointment. A bitter one, but one he could cope with. There would always be another Grand Tourney, after all.

Now, though, missing the Grand Tourney was nothing short of a calamity. The Grand Tourney had been his chance to get the family off his back and get out of the mess he was currently in. Success at the Grand Tourney could have meant fame, fortune, freedom from the family’s demands and expectations. Instead...

Instead, he was in a bind.

Irene was the one who had first suggested it, and Simon didn’t think he’d ever forgive his eldest sister for it. The news of Alroy’s death had rocked through the family, casting the household into an unsettling quiet. Mother had taken to her room for two days. On the third day, she’d finally come down to the breakfast table, in full mourning garb, and all she could talk about, as she dabbed at her reddened eyes with a fine linen handkerchief, was Alroy. How fine he was, and how brave, and what a figure he’d cut in the massive templar armor. Simon had fidgeted in his place, staring at the table. He had no desire to disrespect his mother’s grief — he supposed it must be a very different thing to lose one’s son than to lose one’s bully of an older brother — but he was hard put to look as mournful as the rest of them. “We’ve always had a templar in the family,” Mother had been wailing, while Simon bit back the urge to say that Alroy was still a templar as far as the rest of the world was concerned, and that’s when Irene had said it: “There’s always Simon...”

Their eyes had all turned toward him: Mother’s, red-rimmed and teary, and Martin’s, thoughtful, and Irene’s, speculative. “What about me?” Simon had blurted out.

“Perhaps Simon could go to the templars,” Irene had said.

He’d almost laughed, but Irene’s face was nothing but serious. As it sank in, and as Mother hummed and rocked in her chair, Simon had had the sudden horrifying urge to sink into the floor and vanish forever.

Ever since then, they hadn’t let up. With Constance in the Chantry and Alroy in the templars, and Irene now safely married and Martin betrothed to an heiress, Simon was used to being overlooked, and he’d never before realized how comfortable that was. Now it was all templar this and templar that, and no matter how much Simon said no, not one of them would simply _drop it_. Mother had invited one of Alroy’s old commanders over to talk about it, and they’d even arranged a dispensation since he’d be starting formal templar training rather later than usual. Irene said that he ought to do it, for Mother, and Martin pointed out that Simon already had his share of martial training. They were acting as though it were a settled thing that he should become a templar.

Simon could count on one hand the reasons he’d make a decent templar: he was fair with a sword, or had been before he broke his arm. That was all. He could hardly think of anything he’d like less, unless it was becoming a Chantry clerk and spending the rest of his life on his knees or crossing his eyes over accounts.

Rory was the only one who seemed to understand how little being a templar would suit Simon. And Rory liked the templars far better than Simon did, though Simon couldn’t quite fathom why. Rory thought that Ser Nuala and the others were their friends. Simon knew perfectly well that Ser Nuala saw the two of them as coin in her pocket. He’d seen plenty of templars on his way in and out of the tower, and he’d seen Alroy with his mates. A few of them weren’t bad sorts. But too many of them were swaggering bullies like Alroy, or stiff and suspicious like the new Knight-Commander, or people like Nuala, demanding bribes as the price of being decent. Besides, if he became a templar, they’d never assign him to Ostwick’s Circle, never in a hundred ages. They’d send him somewhere else, to Starkhaven or fucking Kirkwall, the ass-end of the Free Marches. Wherever they sent him, they’d set him to lording it over mages, and he’d be dreadful at it, and they’d never let him see Rory again.

For some reason, he found himself spilling the whole story to Philip William, who made sympathetic noises and bought him another ale.

“Hard luck,” Philip William said when he was done, sympathetically.

“Yeah,” Simon sighed, blinking heavily at his mug. He’d lost count, he knew he’d made one trip to the privy, but there had been more ale after that.

“The templars mostly like fine upstanding sorts, don’t they? Maybe if you—” Philip William waved his hands expansively. He seemed a little more at a loss for words than usual.

“Maybe if I what?” Simon asked, not following.

“You know!” Philip William waved his hands and knocked over an empty mug. “Drink, and cards, and when the templars come to recruit you, you say—” Philip William stood up and planted a foot on a chair, waving his finger vigorously at nothing. “—you say no, sword boy, I won’t do your Chantry ways!”

Simon started laughing as Philip William continued his rant. He’d never been Simon’s favorite cousin, but right now Simon couldn’t for the life of him think why. “Right,” he said, still laughing. “I’ll just tell them to bugger off, I’m not the man for them.”

“Right!” Philip William slung an arm over Simon’s shoulder. “Fuck the templars and their Chantry chastity, anyway.”

That struck them both as so funny that they both burst out laughing, harder than ever. “Fuck the templars,” Simon muttered. Templars didn’t approve of that sort of thing, did they? There must be vows, or something. He frowned as Philip William started leaning harder on his shoulder. “Hey— hey, shove off, cousin.”

Philip William mumbled something and slid awkwardly into the chair next to Simon.

“Right, I hope you gentlemen are done now?”

Simon looked up and recognized Maggie the barmaid, who stood with her hands on her hips. He flashed a smile at her. “Quite!”

She smiled back. “You at least kept him from serenading the whole bar tonight. I know he fancies himself a bard, but we don’t always want to hear the Ballad of the Lost Griffins ‘round here.”

“Aw,” Simon said, blinking. It really was sad about the griffins. “He always does that.”

“I’m a bard!” Philip William proclaimed, raising an arm.

Maggie lifted her eyes heavenward. “What I was going to say is, if you gents would rather not take to the streets tonight, there’s a room for let upstairs. Perfectly clean, I promise.”

Simon pondered that for a moment. “Sure,” he decided. “Yes. C’mon, Phil- liam. Up you get.”

It was a nice enough room, though Simon didn’t properly appreciate it til morning. Even through the hangover, it was nice. Quiet. Clean. He dragged himself down the stairs and had breakfast at the tavern and there were no Mother and Father and Irene to look disapprovingly at him over the eggs and bacon.

Philip William’s drunken suggestion to live as a gentleman-about-town, scaring off the templars with threats of debauchery, was a daft one. Simon knew that. Plus, Lionel would have a fit if he ran through Aunt Eileen’s inheritance too fast.

So what exactly did it say about him that it still seemed like a good idea this morning?

“Maggie,” he said.

She swung over looking far too cheerful for a morning like this. “What can I do for you, serah?”

“What would the weekly rate be on that room?”

 


	8. H is for Help and Horizon

**Simon: H is for Help**

“You’re wasting the best years of your life, you know.”

Simon looked askance across the table at his friend. “I’m already in possession of one father, Bren. I don’t need another.” He took a drink.

“Maker help me,” Bren said dramatically. “I get that you want to spite them, Simon, but how long can you just do _this_?” He waved his arm to encompass the taproom in which they sat, in the same cozy tavern where Simon had taken rooms for the last couple of years. In the corner, a group of card players groaned as their round finished.

Simon shrugged. “As long as I like.” The tavern was far more convivial than the Trevelyan estate.

“Oh, come now! I know you say you don’t need it, but there’s steady work out there for a good swordsman. Fortunes to be made and fame to be gained, even.”

Simon quirked an eyebrow. “Fame and fortune in the Teyrn’s guard?” That was where Bren himself served. Simon sparred with him and the other guards, now and again, but actually joining the guard? Mother and Father had both made clear that that was beneath a Trevelyan, except possibly for an officer’s post, which no one had offered him.

“Not that. But after what happened in Kirkwall, fighting is heating up all over the Free Marches. Plenty of mages want to win free of the Chantry.”

Simon frowned into his cup. All the talk of fighting over magic made him worry about Rory. Rory didn’t seem to know about any trouble at the Ostwick circle, but then again, Rory hardly seemed to pay attention to anything beyond their books these days. “Not all do,” he said. Rory certainly hadn’t shown any interest in that fellow Anders’ manifesto, or any of the other rebel talk.

“Still, both the mages and the templars are taking on mercenaries all across the Free Marches. Mages especially, they want some muscle to stand between them and the templars. There’s plenty of opportunities.” Bren leaned toward Simon, resting an elbow on the table. “I’m thinking of leaving the Teyrn’s guard myself. We could go and sign up together.”

Mercenary work would almost certainly get Simon disinherited entirely. Not that he cared much about the family’s opinion, but the idea of making war for hire made him edgy. As a child, he’d hoped for glory and adventure. Bashing in templars’ faces for coin seemed a far cry from that.

“At least think about it,” Bren urged, seeing Simon’s hesitation. “I’m telling you, right now a warrior can make a name for himself, and I know you favor mages anyway.”

“Oh, no,” Simon said. “Leave me out of that. I’m not one for politics.” He didn’t much like the templars, but it hardly seemed like his place to say what mages should be doing with themselves.

Bren shook his head. “You’re really just going to sit here forever, aren’t you? Drinking and gambling and bedding whoever casts their eyes your way, when you could be making something of yourself.”

Simon made a rude gesture in Bren’s direction. “I’ll have you know I bed only the finest and handsomest of those who cast their eyes my way.”

Bren snorted and stood, tossing a couple of coins on the table. “Do as you like, then, Simon. I must be off. _Some_ of us have an early guard rotation in the morning.”

Simon made a show of sneering. “How delightful this responsible life of yours sounds!”

Bren made a rude gesture back and departed. Simon drained his mug, nettled. He got a lecture like this from Father every time he had dinner at home. To get it from a friend his own age was another thing entirely. He wasn’t getting any younger, that was true, but it wasn’t so bad, was it? To enjoy himself and the little bit of independence he’d managed? He might be bored from time to time, but at least he was living his own life, more or less.

The door opened, and someone came in. Simon’s glance passed right over the newcomer before he realized that he knew the figure in the nondescript cloak, blinking around the room through a pair of spectacles. He stiffened where he sat, setting down his mug. He started, hardly able to believe his own eyes. To his certain knowledge, Rory had not left the Circle tower in fifteen years, since the templars had first dragged them off at the age of eight. Simon’s permission to visit Rory was an old thing, paid for over the years with many a greased palm and the occasional bit of charm. Even the tensions of the last couple of years hadn’t changed that. Simon supposed he was too regular a visitor at the Circle for anyone to challenge him now. Still, they’d never obtained permission for Rory to leave the tower. Simon wasn’t sure why Rory was here now, but he doubted it was due to the Knight-Commander’s sudden generosity and kindness.

Simon dropped a coin on the table to cover his tab and made his way across the room, trying not to look like he was in haste. There were no templars in the taproom that night, at least, and no one other than Simon appeared to be paying much heed to the new arrival.

“Rory,” he said once he’d gotten close enough, keeping his voice low. “What are you doing here?”

Relief flooded his twin’s face as Rory peered at him. “Oh, good, you _are_ here,” Rory said. “I didn’t...” They stopped, swallowing, and Simon realized Rory was shaking.

With a quick glance around, Simon slung an arm over Rory’s shoulders and steered them both out of the common room, toward the corridor that led to the upper rooms, away from listening ears. “What happened?” Simon asked, still quietly.

Rory took off their spectacles and rubbed their eyes, pausing a moment to collect their thoughts before saying, “They- the templars invoked the Right of Annulment.”

“What, here?” Simon couldn’t contain his surprise. Things had been getting worse all over, he wasn’t ignorant of that, but Ostwick wasn’t Kirkwall. There hadn’t been any real mage rebellion here, and certainly no Maker-forsaken attack on the actual Chantry. The Ostwick Circle was a calm, sleepy place, or so Simon had always thought; Rory was supposed to be safe in the Circle here.

“It was so unnecessary,” Rory muttered. “Some supported the rebel mages, it’s true, but...”

“You’re not hurt?” Simon asked quickly.

Rory shook their head. “No. I... I was warned in time.”

“What about the rest of the mages, did they leave, too?”

Rory’s shoulders rose and fell. “I’m not sure. Scattered, I guess. Some went to join the rebels, others, I don’t know. I just didn’t... I didn’t know where else to go. I remembered you said you had rooms here, but I had to ask directions where to go.”

Simon squeezed their shoulders. “Of course you should have come here.” He was just glad he’d been here when Rory arrived. “Did you have trouble finding the place?”

“No... well, a little.” Rory adjusted their spectacles. “I didn’t know the streets very well, so I got turned around once or twice.”

Simon nodded. Rory had never really been out in Ostwick alone, come to think of it — the two of them had sneaked out of the estate together a time or two as children, but since then Rory had been stuck in the Circle. He could only imagine how confusing the dark streets of Ostwick had been.

An even worse thought occurred to Simon: their connection was hardly a secret. If any templars were bent on rounding up all their stray mages, it wouldn’t be that difficult to track Rory down. “Did anyone follow you, do you think? There weren’t any templars in the streets?”

Rory jerked in alarm. “What? No. Or at least... I don’t think so.”

Simon nodded, trying to think. “We have a little time, then.”

“You think they’ll come here?” Rory’s eyes were worried behind the glass.

“The templars know perfectly well who I am.” And he might be Lord Simon Trevelyan, son of Bann Trevelyan, but that would only take him so far. “Unless you want to go to Mother and Father, I think we need to get out of Ostwick.”

Rory stiffened. “Do you think they’d even help?”

Simon hesitated. The truth was, he couldn’t be sure. Mother and Father might choose to put family considerations first, or maybe they’d find some political advantage in bringing their youngest back home. Then again, the Trevelyans had a long record of loyal service to the Chantry, and the family had been happy enough to ignore Rory for the last decade and a half. Simon wasn’t sure he wanted to risk Rory’s life on their parents’ current goodwill.

“That’s what I thought,” Rory said in answer to Simon’s silence, in a flat tone.

“Leaving the city, then,” Simon said, deliberately cheerful. He let go of Rory and stepped back into the common room, catching Maggie’s eye. He only had to wait a moment before the tavernkeeper’s daughter freed herself from a customer and followed him, wiping her hands on her apron.

“What do you need, serah?” she asked with a smile for both Simon and Rory.

Simon passed her a few coins. “Let me know if any templars are on the way, eh? And if anyone’s asking for me, especially a templar, I’m definitely not in.”

Her eyebrows went up even as she made the coins disappear. “I’ll have the lads keep an eye out,” she said. Her younger brothers were often in the streets looking for likely patrons, anyway. She folded her arms. “What did you do this time?”

Rory looked puzzled by the familiarity, but Simon merely smiled back. “You know me, Maggie, I’m as innocent as a Chantry sister.”

She snorted at that. “A likely story, but we’ll keep watch just the same.”

“Much appreciated,” Simon told her sincerely. They were good people, Maggie and her family, and he’d rather miss them. He also hoped they didn’t have any difficulty on his and Rory’s account. He let her go back to her work and started up the stairs to his rooms.

“But where are we going to go?” Rory asked, hastening up after him.

“Markham, maybe,” Simon said, eyeing his twin in his too-conspicuous robes. “Or... wait, you don’t ride, do you?”

Rory actually stopped in their tracks to frown at Simon. “Ride? Um… the last time I was on a mount of any kind, we were eight, and it was that dreadful pony that bit.”

“Spent entirely too much time around dear brother Alroy, that one,” Simon said, remembering the beast, which had grown crankier by the year until it died of crotchety old age a couple of winters previous. “Best not to try riding over the mountains, then. We’ll look for a ship. Almost anywhere will do for now. Hercinia, perhaps, or Wycome.” Anywhere but Kirkwall, at least.

Rory looked perplexed. “But... what are we going to do?”

They’d reached the door to Simon’s rooms; Simon unlocked it and ushered Rory in. “One thing at a time,” he said as cheerfully as he could. He had no idea how to answer the question, really. His mind was racing, and he was regretting the couple of ales he’d had earlier in the evening. First things first: they needed to get out of the city. There were too many templars here who could recognize one or the other of them on sight. There was no telling when one of them might try to capture or kill Rory, even if Rory had never done anything wrong. Rory had only ever disobeyed their parents when Simon did it first and egged them on. Otherwise, Rory had followed the rules all of their life, had submitted to the Chantry’s laws and lived quietly in the Circle. Other mages might like to summon up demons or cast blood magic or blow up chantries or get up to all sorts of other nonsense. Simon wasn’t about to let his twin pay for the fight mages like that had started. He said briskly, “First things first, let’s get you changed. My clothes won’t fit perfectly, but it’ll be better than what you have.” He tossed some spare clothes from his trunk in Rory’s direction.

“Change?” Rory sounded utterly bewildered.

Simon left off rummaging in the trunk and sat back on his heels. He could see, now, how overwhelmed Rory was, still trembling even though they were alone, looking wide-eyed and a little shocky, with dark circles under their eyes and unkempt hair. He kept his voice gentle. “Rory. Mages wear robes. It’s more practical, and less suspicious, for you to wear trousers.”

Rory blinked. “Right,” they said faintly. “Of course.”

Simon smiled. “It’ll be all right, you’ll see. We’ll just get our things together and head down to the docks to see what ships are taking passengers.” He’d have to leave payment for his rooms, and he’d have to leave his horse, still in the family stables, but that was all right.

He reached back into the trunk and started pulling out other necessities. He had plenty of coin, at least. Lionel managed most of Simon’s inheritance, but Simon didn’t spend nearly as much as Mother assumed. Besides, he won at cards a fair amount of the time.

Hell. Lionel. Simon debated whether they should stop by Lionel’s office before they departed. Was there time? The templars wouldn’t likely trace them there, but... perhaps a letter sent from wherever they went would suffice. Simon grimaced at the thought of writing it out, but perhaps Rory would pen it for him.

He returned to his task, fetching out sword and shield and a few spare daggers, a change or two of clothing. His seal ring was probably a risk, but he tied it up in a handkerchief and stuffed it in a pocket anyway. It might come in handy somewhere along the way.

Behind Simon, cloth rustled as Rory began to change attire.

There really wasn’t much else Simon needed. Clothing, weapons, and coin would take them far enough. He hoped. It shouldn’t be too hard to find a ship captain willing to take on two passengers and keep their mouth shut; the question was simply how much it would cost them. And after that... well, Simon supposed that depended on where they ended up, and what Rory wanted to do.

Simon had a purpose now, that much was certain.

 

 

**Rory: H is for Horizon**

Rory was on a ship, and they hated everything about it.

They had said something of the sort to Simon, who had responded cheerily that at least it was a nice, sunny day. The sun was part of the problem. Its light was far too bright for Rory’s comfort, and the clear day allowed them to see to the horizon in every direction. The sight of the apparently endless sea stretching before them made their stomach tighten into a knot.

So the hold, with its comforting walls enclosing them, ought to be better, but the space came with its own set of problems. It was cramped and smelly and dark; the lanterns shed barely enough light for reading or writing. Rory missed the clarity of magelight, but they couldn’t possibly risk summoning it here. Simon had reassured them that the crew and other passengers didn’t suspect that they were a mage, even though Rory felt like the truth was written on their face.

So they had tried to read or write by lantern-light, when the ship allowed any such activity at all. Rory had ruined several letters by spilling ink over them when the seas or the wind abruptly battered the ship. When the sea was particularly choppy, there was no point in trying to write at all, and reading was likely to send them running up to deck and to the sides of the ship to heave into the dark water below. The first few days had been spent in wretched misery while Rory learned that lesson.

When writing had been possible, Rory had prioritized scribing Simon’s letter to Lionel. It was the least they could do after wresting their twin away from a far more comfortable existence. Simon seemed confident that Lionel would be able to keep his affairs in order. Thank the Maker that Simon knew about worldly matters. Watching him dicker over the price of passage had been a revelation. Rory had never bargained over a purchase in their life.

On another piece of parchment, Rory had been making a list of all the letters they needed to write. They had painstakingly included everyone they could think of who might be convinced to intervene and bring the mages and templars back to their senses. The list began with the Divine and her advisors and ranged through most of the nobility of southern Thedas to some individual Mothers like their sister Constance. Rory would need to speak to Simon about buying more parchment when they landed in Wycome.

There was a more urgent matter that Rory was keenly aware that they needed to speak to Simon about, but it required absolute privacy. There had been a few chances, when they were alone at the side of the ship (port or starboard, Rory could not remember which was which) or below decks. Each time, Rory’s courage had deserted them as they visualized Simon’s reaction, and each time, they had lambasted themselves for this failure. Delaying potentially put Simon and everyone else on board at risk.

So, when Simon stuck his head into the hold to see how Rory was doing and Rory realized that the two of them were alone, Rory rushed to speak before their nerves could fail them again. “Simon? Do you have a few minutes to talk?”

“Of course,” Simon said, coming over to sit on the bunk nearest Rory. He had to duck his head to avoid the upper bunk.

Rory swallowed around the lump in their throat. _Say it’s nothing. This can wait._ No, they wouldn’t be a coward again, and this really couldn’t wait.

“I need you to, uh, make me a promise. When I was in the Circle, the templars would have handled it, but now… You’re the only one who knows what I am, the only one I can trust with this.”

“Trust with what?” Simon asked. “Is this some sort of mage thing? You don’t have to take lyrium, do you?”

Where had he gotten that idea? “No, no, only templars take lyrium. But it is a mage thing, as you say.”

Simon watched expectantly as Rory fell silent, not sure how to continue. “Go on,” he prompted eventually.

Context, what Simon needed here was context. “So because mages have a connection with the Fade, we can come into contact with demons. If… a mage’s will is overcome or they are suborned by the demon’s influence, they can fall prey to possession by the demon.”

“I know,” Simon said, far too casually. “Is there some way the templars protected you from possession? Something I can do or learn to help you fend off demons?”

“Not exactly.” Rory could not look Simon in the face. They lowered their eyes and followed the motion of Simon’s fingers drumming against his boot. “When a demon possesses a mage, the result is an abomination, a being that can slaughter hundreds and seek to make more of its kind. If I ever become possessed…” They trailed off.

“Don’t worry, Rory, I’ll do whatever it takes to free you,” Simon said. “What do you need?”

Rory looked up into their twin’s eyes. “If I become possessed, I need you to kill me.”

Simon sat up abruptly, cracking his head on the upper bunk. He stared at Rory in horrified silence. Then he shouted, “What?”

“If a demon possesses me… Simon, it might still look like me, but it won’t be me anymore. The demon would kill you without remorse. It could murder everyone on this ship, destroy a town… The best thing you could do for me would be to kill it before that could happen.”

Simon scowled. “Don’t act like this is a normal thing to ask someone. Rory, I can’t promise to kill you!” His gaze bored into Rory. “Is this – being possessed – something you worry about all the time?”

Rory looked down at that. “I wouldn’t say worry. But I’m always aware that it could happen.”

“Always aware! How often does this actually happen?”

“Not… that often. Once, in the Tower, while I was there.” They had no desire to talk about Blayne. “More often, if the Veil separating us from the Fade is weak, as it is said to be in Kirkwall. Or if the mage practices blood magic.”

Simon blinked rapidly. Rory wasn’t sure if he was following, but then he said firmly, “There must be some other way to help you, if you’re possessed.”

Rory’s reading had suggested one such way, but it involved a powerful mage with a fortune’s worth of lyrium, and Simon didn’t possess either. So they said, “No. It’s the only way.”

“What about _before_ possession? There’s no way for a mage to resist the demon?”

“No, mages can resist,” Rory said. “We’re all taught how. And the mages who aren’t strong enough to fight off a demon are made Tranquil, so…”

“What in the Maker’s name is that?” Simon exclaimed.

Rory regretted mentioning it already. “It’s not important. My point is, I know how to resist a demon, but if my will should falter…”

“That’s not going to happen,” Simon declared adamantly. “You’ve got a strong will, you’re not a blood mage, and we won’t go near Kirkwall or anywhere else like that. You don’t need me to promise anything because it will never come up.” He set his shoulders obstinately, raised his head, and cursed as he rapped it against the upper bunk again.

Rory stared at him with a mixture of love and frustration. Simon’s confidence had been welcome so far, but what did he know about demonic possession? “You can’t guarantee that. _I_ can’t.”

“Rory, I know you would never let a demon take you over.”

“You _can’t_ be sure of that!” Rory was yelling now, and the fire surged inside them. They damped the fire and tried to speak more calmly. “Simon, please. I swore an oath, that I’d never use my magic to take a life. But the demon won’t care about that, it will use my magic to kill people…”

“There is _never_ going to be a demon!” Simon snarled, clenching his hands into fists on his lap.

“The templars said that any mage can fall…”

Simon burst out of the bunk and to his feet. “The templars said! The templars know what’s good for you, do they? The same templars who are out there right now, killing every mage they can find? I guess they decided not to wait for those mages to be possessed!”

Rory’s calm was shattered. “Some templars are my friends! They want to protect and care for mages, not harm them! Emris, Ser Nuala…”

“Ha!” Simon spit. “Nuala only acted like she cared about you to fatten her purse!”

Rory’s world rocked around them as if a huge wave had struck the ship. They fumbled for words. “What?”

“I was _bribing_ her, Rory, so I could continue to see you! Of course she protected you! If something happened to you, where would her next bribe come from?”

Rory flinched away. “She wasn’t like that, Simon. It wasn’t like that!”

“I’m telling you, you’re better off away from the whole lot of them!”

“When you won’t make me this promise? When you stand there and dismiss me? When you won’t even try to understand? I think I was better off with the templars!”

Simon stood for a moment, his jaw grinding. “Suit yourself,” he eventually forced out, and stomped away toward the hatch.

Rory lowered their head into their arms. They wished they could be back in the Circle, even the Circle of the last few years, with templars and mages looking at each other more suspiciously and constant talk of war. Still, the library had been a sanctuary, books an escape, and Rory had always known that if the worst happened the templars would stop them from shedding blood. Now they were out in the world, and the world didn’t seem to understand Rory any better than they understood it.

How angry might Simon be? Rory couldn’t remember ever being on the receiving end of Simon’s temper. Would he hold a grudge? For how long? He was all that Rory had, now.

Rory hadn’t meant to lash out at him. Simon, too, had left everything he had behind, for Rory’s sake. Rory felt they should find their brother, apologize, but they couldn’t find the will to move. _And he thinks I have the will to fend off demons?_ They curled up further, sobbing.

Rory remained there until he felt a touch on their shoulder. They looked up to see Simon, his own face streaked with tears. Simon gave Rory’s shoulder a squeeze.

“I’ll do it,” he said, his voice sounding half-choked.

“What?”

“I promise. If a demon takes you, I’ll do what needs to be done. But you’d better fight like mad against the demon first, or I’ll be so angry at you.”

“I will. I promise I will,” Rory said gratefully. They shouldn’t have worried. Simon had come through, just as he always had.

Simon put an arm around Rory’s shoulders, and Rory leaned into his side. They stayed there, both silent in the damp dimness, until the change of watch brought a dozen weary sailors down the hatch.


	9. I is for Immolation and Interruption

**Rory: I is for Immolation**

“This chicken,” Simon pronounced gravely, “died in vain.”

Rory had to agree. They had never been choosy about the quality of their food, generally eating whatever the Circle’s cooks produced without complaint. But the chicken leg they were attempting to eat was as dry as the weather outside was wet. They might as well pull up a wooden plank from the floor and gnaw on that.

It was enough to make Rory nostalgic for Wycome, where they had taken lodging in an inn that reliably produced fare which, though unadventurous, was tasty enough. But there had been too many templars passing through Wycome, often bearing lists of suspected apostates including Rory’s name. Simon had judged the city not safe, and since then, they had been circulating through the tinier hamlets and roadside inns of the Free Marches.

Simon began to ask, “Should we see if they have some bread, or…” He stopped abruptly, glancing at the door and then, with a deliberately casual air, back down at his unsatisfying meal.

“What is it?” Rory whispered.

“Templars,” Simon said softly. “Best to take no notice.”

Rory couldn’t resist a glance. There were three templars, muddied and stained from the road, striding across the common room to the innkeeper. They wore no helmets, but Rory didn’t recognize any of their faces. One had a livid scar running across his brow, and another was favoring her left leg. The last, in the lead of the group, began loudly questioning the innkeeper about any mages in the area. Across the room, conversation died and eyes turned to warily observing the templars. Rory thought they might have been more conspicuous if they _hadn’t_ looked.

Simon, though, kept his eyes low, focusing on his chicken leg, and Rory tried to follow his lead. But their gaze kept returning to the group of templars. The two who weren’t interrogating the innkeeper were impassively looking over the room. Rory’s eyes met the scarred man’s, and the templar frowned. Rory looked quickly away, but couldn’t shake the sense that the templar was still staring at them.

Rory tensed, ready to flee for the back door. Simon moved his free hand toward Rory and slowly lowered it to the table. _Keep calm_. Rory drew a deep breath in and let it slowly out. The templars would pass. It had been a long, tiring day, riding here from the next village (and Rory still did not get on well with horses), then penning letters to the Divine and the Empress of Orlais, pleading for them to intervene in the conflict and negotiate a peace. Surely Rory was just weary, imagining the scrutiny?

Except that now the templar – a young, clean-shaven man who might be handsome, but for the scar – was coming towards the table, his gaze fixed on Rory. Rory stared down at the table. The fire in Rory’s heart was starting to surge; they tamped it back down, then jerked as a hand came down on their shoulder. The templar’s voice sounded, far too close to Rory’s ear, “I know you! You’re the Trevelyan mage.” He spat the word _mage_ as if it were obscene. “And _you’re_ the brother.”

 _I know that voice,_ Rory realized. They had been thrown off by the scar and the lack of a beard, but the voice hadn’t changed. The man was Ser Tomos, from the Ostwick Circle. He had always been friendly to Rory and never shown any particular dislike for the mages under his care. But the war had dredged up a great deal of ill will on all sides.

“Ser, you mistake me,” Rory began. “I am but a humble servant…”

Tomos smacked Rory across the face, knocking their spectacles to the ground. Rory fell back in their chair, ears ringing and the sharp taste of blood in their mouth. The templar raised his hand to strike again, but Simon was there, blade readied, bare shield arm thrust out to cover Rory. “Lay your hand on them again, and I’ll take it off,” he snarled.

“Why, Tomos?” Rory gasped. “You know I’m not…”

Tomos ignored them. “We have a blood mage and a sympathizer here!” he called to his companions. “Let’s show everyone here how we deal with their kind!” He reached for his sword, but Simon already had his to hand and buried his blade in the templar’s gut.

Blood sprayed across both twins. Tomos looked down at the blade protruding from his stomach. Rory was close enough to see his expression, wide-eyed and almost puzzled. Then Tomos started screaming, a ragged, desperate sound. Simon grimly kicked him away with a boot, pulling his sword free, and the templar crumpled to the ground, still screaming.

Panic broke out all around them. Rory wanted to join Tomos in screaming, or perhaps to faint, but knew that they couldn’t risk distracting Simon. Instead, they dropped to the floor to search for their lost spectacles.

“Rory, stay behind me!” Simon commanded, then raised his voice. “This man will live, if you get him to a healer right away. No one has to die today!”

Yells of rage were the only replies. Rory scrabbled desperately on the floor, then gave up on locating their spectacles. “Simon! Where are they?”

“Coming right at me,” Simon said hurriedly.

Rory could barely make them out, rushing at Simon with their shields raised high. Simon had no armor, no shield protecting him. Rory closed their eyes and called on all their power. Fire and ice clashed within their veins, both aching to be unleashed, but Rory set their jaw and imposed their will on their magic. Guiding and forming magical force, they formed it into a shield to protect Simon.

They were just in time to deflect a templar mace. The echo of the impact jarred Rory to the bones, but they gritted their teeth and maintained concentration. The other templar stepped back, dropped the point of her sword, and knelt…

_Oh no, I hoped they hadn’t been trained in…_

A pulse of light radiated out from the kneeling templar. Rory’s shield fractured into shards in its wake. The broken remnants scraped across Simon’s arm, leaving bloody scratches behind, then disappeared before hitting the floor. The pulse hit Rory next and sent them staggering back, fire and ice draining from their veins and leaving a hollow, empty feeling. Blood roared in Rory’s ears, and spots danced in front of their vision. They shook their head vigorously, desperately hoping not to pass out.

They could just see Simon jabbing desperately at the templars, trying to drive them back, but they closed in on him like an implacable vise. Rory scrabbled for the remnants of their power, trying to form the shield anew, but their creation was gossamer and glass, barely able to hold against a light wind, no use against steel. Simon took a step back, then another to stand immediately in front of Rory. There was nowhere left for him to retreat, and the templars were closing in to finish the fight.

Rory reached inside, desperately, and the fire roared to life in their heart.

Rory had sworn an oath when the hostilities started. They had said to Rion, their fellow mage, “I won’t use my magic to shed blood, templar or otherwise.” They had told Simon, “I’d never use my magic to take a life.” They would have accepted their own death rather than break their oath. But what was their word worth, placed against Simon’s life?

 _Release us_ , the flames clamored, and Rory let them out.

There was a painful surge of heat in Rory’s chest. It flowed down their arms and burst from their fingers in rivulets of flame, arcing around Simon to strike the templars. They cried out and tried to get past Simon to get to Rory. Rory tried to call more fire to stop them, but their power was too depleted from the templar’s rite. The flames weren’t burning hot enough. Closing their eyes again, Rory reached inside for everything in their heart, the desperation and anger and fear and above all, their love for Simon who had given everything up for them… and fed it all to the fire.

The templars screamed in agony. Rory opened their eyes to find them entirely engulfed in the conflagration, their charge halted as they staggered and burned. The stench was overwhelming, and Rory’s stomach twisted. Almost, almost they called the fire back. But the templars were still trying to strike at Simon. He had been wounded again while Rory’s eyes were closed and was barely deflecting the templars’ blows. If the fire went out, he might fall – and so Rory kept the flame flowing until their attackers’ weapons fell from charred fingers and they collapsed to the ground.

The noise in the inn now was overwhelming – Tomos still screaming on the ground, the innkeeper yelling, people running for the doors, the fire roaring as it looked for more and more to burn and found floorboards and chairs and tables. Rory sagged back against the wall, feeling at once about to vomit and pass out. The fire bellowed its rage in their ears.

Simon’s yells penetrated its roar. “Rory! Rory, you have to stop it burning!”

Rory tried to stifle the fire within, but it was burning stronger than their will could suppress. They thought of the templars’ hate, their eagerness to kill someone who had done them no harm, and brought forth cold to stifle the flames, first within, then without. Icicles formed on the ceiling, and the fire went out with an angry hiss.

The last of Rory’s energy seemed to go with it, and they slumped to the side. Simon moved quickly to catch his twin with his shield arm, letting his sword fall to the ground. Rory leaned into Simon’s arm and looked up at their twin’s eyes. “Are they…”

“They’re dead, Rory. They can’t hurt you now.”

Rory moaned. “I swore… Simon, you know I swore I’d never… I wouldn’t.” They burst into deep, shuddering tears, burying their head against Simon’s shoulder.

Simon wrapped his arm around Rory. “I know, Rory. I know. You did what you had to do. It’s all right.”

Rory continued to sob. “No, it’s not. Now… now I am exactly what they accused me of being. An apostate… murderer.”

“No, you’re not. Listen to me!” Simon said, patting Rory’s shoulder. “They would have killed me, and killed you, and probably killed the other innocent people here for harboring an apostate. And then gone on to kill more mages, or people they thought might favor mages. You _saved_ lives here. You saved my life.”

“I couldn’t let them kill you,” Rory said through their tears.

Simon’s lips twitched. “I’m grateful for that. You’re my twin, Rory, and I love you, and you are still the good-hearted person you’ve always been. Nothing today changed that.”

Rory wasn’t sure they agreed, but they had no strength left to argue.

“Now we need to get out of here,” Simon said, “before anyone gets the bright idea to go find some more templars. Can you walk?”

Rory tried to rise and fell back into Simon’s arm.

“I’ll take that as a no,” Simon said. “No matter.” He swept Rory up over his shoulder. Rory saw him grimace in pain, but his voice was level as he said, “I’ve got you.”

“My spectacles?” Rory asked.

“Smashed to pieces, I’m afraid,” Simon said. “We’ll see about getting new ones once we’re out of the Free Marches.”

“What?”

“We can’t stay here now. The villagers will share this story, and every templar will be looking for us with murder in mind. We need to get to somewhere they don’t know us. Antiva, maybe, or Ferelden.”

Rory reflected, once again, how lucky they were that Simon always knew what to do, as he carried Rory out the door of the now-abandoned inn.

 

**Simon: I is for Interruption**

There was something comfortingly familiar about taverns, something similar about the smells of stew and ale and the clatter of cups and voices, no matter where one was. This place — the Gnawed Noble, if Simon remembered right — might as well have been his own favorite haunt back in Ostwick, except for lacking the friendly presence of Maggie and her family and the rest of the regulars there.

Ostwick lay a long way behind him, though, and the comfort of being known and liked with it. Instead, here they were in Denerim, a city made up of brown mud and stone, still raw and rebuilding from the Blight nearly a decade ago. They knew no one here, and no one (Simon hoped) knew them. Simon put on an amiable enough face as he ordered and drank, but he sat with his back to the wall, and the tension in his shoulders hadn’t dissipated since that day on the road.

His eyes wandered the room as he sipped his ale: a quartet of men about his own age at a table by the fire, laughing and whooping at the results of their dice game; a pair of handsome fellows chatting over by the bar; a few stools down, an older man in brown drinking alone; a mixed group of women and men in the corner having a quieter conversation, though one of the women had a lute-case, so music might yet happen. No templars that Simon could see, or at least none bearing the templar sigil. None who had the eyes of fanatics, but carried themselves like trained men, either. A few months ago Simon might have introduced himself to one group or another, asked the dice-players for a game, perhaps struck up a conversation with the dark-haired man at the bar, or the blond one in the corner, and sounded them out to see if there was any mutual interest. He’d already been here long enough to see one couple toss the barkeep a coin and stroll up the stairs, arms slung across each other’s shoulders. The noise and cheer was familiar enough to make him feel homesick. It was tempting to relax, to try to forget about the worries of the past few weeks, to behave as if he were one of these carefree people enjoying themselves.

He wasn’t any more, though. His purse was too thin to chance the contents on a roll of the dice or a fortunate draw these days. It would take time to write back to Lionel and see what could be sent. Besides that, Simon couldn’t stop thinking about the fire and the smell of scorched flesh.

He’d seen people die before, but not like that. It was one thing to hear constantly about the harm magic could do, and another to see fire ignite out of nowhere, turned against another person. Fire made by his quiet, bookish twin, no less.

Simon couldn’t bring himself to regret it, though.

He felt sure that Rory wasn’t the only one who had taken a life that day. Before then, Simon’s blows had all been dealt on the training ground, or in supervised matches. Nothing compared to the feel of his blade sinking through flesh, or the look of surprise on the other man’s face. He half-recognized the man from the tower, even, though he didn’t recall the templar’s name. As best Simon could remember, the fellow had been civil enough as Rory and Simon’s guard, when he was on the Chantry’s leash. It just went to show what people like that turned into once the leash was off and they could do whatever they pleased to mages. To them, it didn’t matter that Rory had never done anyone harm, they treated him like a criminal anyway.

Simon wouldn’t let them touch Rory, not if he could help it.

But he hadn’t expected Rory to step in. Rory had been insistent that they’d sworn never to use their magic against another. Simon still didn’t know how to feel about the fact that Rory had broken that oath — was it Simon’s fault, that he hadn’t been able to protect his twin? They’d both been careless, perhaps, not conscious enough of their surroundings, not wary enough of their fellow travelers. Whatever had gone wrong, Simon would spare Rory having to make that choice again, if he could. Rory had wept unashamedly, as Simon rallied to hustle them both out of the ruined inn and on their way, leaving behind the carnage they’d dealt out. Rory still wept in the night, now and again, though Simon offered what clumsy comfort he could: a swift hug or a hand on the shoulder. It hardly seemed like enough. 

Rory didn’t need to know that Simon himself sometimes dreamed of the shocked look on the templar’s face, or of how wrong things could have gone — the building burning down, or Rory falling under the templars’ rage.

Ever since, Rory had devoted most of their waking hours to letters. Some of their coin had had to go for ink and paper and messengers’ fees. Rory was determined to catch the ear of everyone they could think of, pleading for peace and reason and a new accommodation between mages and templars. Simon couldn’t really see what good it would do, not with so many fanatics on the loose — not just templars, but the other mages, too. As if blowing up a Chantry wasn’t bad enough, he’d heard stories along the way, of templars strung up and mutilated as an example. The whole fight wasn’t doing ordinary folk any good, either. Rory had the right idea, that much was certain, but what good could one person expect to do, no matter how many letters they wrote?

Then again, at least Rory was doing _something_. Simon just spent his time keeping watch for the next band of templars to come after his twin, since he’d done a piss-poor job of stopping the last ones.

He caught the motion out of the corner of his eye, even in the midst of his sour reverie: one of the fellows at the bar shoved at the other, who slapped his hand away and shoved back. The first staggered backward a few steps, knocking down a stool, and then came storming back, throwing a punch at the second.

Simon couldn’t tell what had provoked the fight, or which of them might be in the wrong. It was none of his affair. They were both bellowing at each other now as they tussled back and forth, while the barkeep tried in vain to shout over them.

Then one shoved the other hard enough that he crashed into the older man’s stool, knocking him to the floor. Heedless, the one who’d fallen charged back to his feet and threw his mug at his opponent, with enough force that it sailed past the other man’s head and crashed in the middle of the dice players’ game, shattering into a mess of flying crockery shards.

There was a moment of silence after that. All four of the dice players turned and stared at the commotion. On the other side of it, the older man stood up, fists clenched. Simon recognized the suspended moment, of anticipation, almost. It was about to be a proper bar fight.

The older man marched up to the fellow who’d knocked him down, yanked him around by the shoulder, and socked him in the gut. At nearly the same time, the four dice players scrambled out of their chairs and into the fray — except two of them seemed to be intent on pummeling each other, shouting something about cheating.

Oh, yes. Now it was a proper bar fight, indeed. Simon’s lips twitched

Back in Ostwick, Simon would have waded in for the sheer sport of it, and he would have known the other regulars and had his own opinions about who was cheating at cards or dice, and who was a dirty fighter best avoided, and who deserved a punch in the face anyway. It would have ended with a round of drinks, probably, and a few bruises to nurse, but nothing serious. Here, he knew none of it, not even how many of these people were friends before. He was far more tempted to join the crowd from the corner, who were making their way out the tavern’s door, the blond man clutching the lute case.

Yes, that was probably the best way. He had no business getting involved, really. He heaved a sigh and stood, tossing a couple of coins on the table to cover his drink. He’d made no more than a few steps toward the door when a pair of struggling men crashed through the table next to him, its legs splintering off under their combined weight. The man on top promptly grabbed one of the legs and swung his arm back, meaning to use it as a club. The other man, half pinned beneath his assailant, promptly shrieked and raised his arms over his face.

Oh, the hell with it.

Simon stepped behind the man with the table leg and caught his upraised arm in a firm grip. “Don’t you think that’s enough? Playing a bit rough for a simple brawl, aren’t you?”

The man tried to tug his arm out of Simon’s hold, but failed. He whirled toward Simon instead, snarling curses on Simon’s parentage. The sudden spin left him reeling, though, and he sat down abruptly on the floor, blinking. Simon smirked down at the pair of them. They seemed sorted, at least, both of them content to stay on the floor, one of them still lying on the broken table, while the other sat in a daze. He pried the table leg out of the latter’s grip and tossed it safely out of the way.

That left the other five still slugging it out, smashing more furniture and crockery as they struggled. One of them was thrown heavily against another table, which toppled over, spilling the man to the floor a few paces from Simon. The fellow clambered back up, fists clenched, and Simon stepped over and caught hold of him before he could dive back into the fray. “That eager for more?” Simon inquired, noting the bruise already spreading across the fellow’s otherwise handsome face.

“But he—”

The man’s protest trailed off when the tavern’s door opened with a thud. Several people wearing armor and the colors of the Denerim city guard came in. The one in the lead called out, with authority, “All right, break it up. Maker, but you lot have done enough damage in here, haven’t you?”

The remaining brawlers staggered apart, looking sheepish. Only the two dice players still pushed at each other. The guards promptly moved to separate the last two and round the lot of them up. Simon took a wary step back, hoping to avoid their attention altogether, but the movement drew the captain’s notice instead. His eyes narrowed. “And what exactly were you about, hm?”

“Not fighting,” Simon said quickly, lifting his hands to placate the captain. “Just trying to cool things off a bit.”

“Really.” The captain looked Simon up and down dubiously. He was clearly a veteran, graying and with deep lines around his eyes.

“S’true,” called the barkeep, who’d started mopping up the spilled liquor from the bar. “That fellow never threw a punch.” He gave Simon a grudging nod.

“Kept your head, eh?” The guard captain said with a measure of approval.

Simon shrugged and put on a smile. “Just trying to keep anyone from really getting hurt.”

“Hmm.” The captain glanced around at his guards. “You’re not from around here, are you? You don’t sound like a Fereldan.”

“Ah... no,” Simon said. “I’m in from Ostwick.”

“Oh, a Marcher,” the captain said, not disapprovingly. “What’s your business in Denerim?”

“Er.” Simon did his best to look inoffensive and respectable, uncomfortably well that he was one of the larger men in the room, a handspan or so taller than the guard captain himself. “Just passing through, really, myself and my sib. We’re not looking for any trouble,” he added hastily.

The captain nodded and glanced around again. The trio of guards he’d brought with him had the erstwhile brawlers lined up, more or less. Some of them were slumped over, one or two of them still groaning and complaining. He asked abruptly, “You wouldn’t go off wailing into your beer if someone did land a blow on you, would you?”

Simon blinked at that. “No, of course not.”

“And if someone told you to break up a fight, you wouldn’t set the place on fire or break any skulls?”

Simon stiffened a bit at the mention of fire, but the man didn’t seem to be hinting at anything about Rory yet. “No, who would do a thing like that?”

“Too many of my guards,” the captain grumbled. “I assume you can handle a weapon?”

“I’m fair with a sword and shield,” Simon said cautiously.

The captain nodded, and waved to his guards to take the brawlers out. “If it happens you’re looking for work, then, come down to the guard post and ask for Captain Kylon.”

 _Work?_ “All right,” said Simon, befuddled. The guard captain nodded again and took his leave. Simon stood in the devastated tap room staring after him.

It was ironic, really. Only a few months ago, he’d been dismissing the idea of joining the Teyrn’s Guard in Ostwick. But now, joining the Denerim equivalent actually seemed like an appealing prospect. A little pay would go a long way to handle his and Rory’s expenses, and besides, it would put him in place to hear anything noteworthy about templars coming to down in search of escaped mages. He’d have a much better chance of keeping Rory and himself safe.

Simon hastened out the door after the guards.


	10. J is for Justice and Joined

**Rory: J is for Justice**

“What made me think I could do some good here?” Rory asked.

Simon did not respond. After a minute’s wait, Rory concluded that their twin hadn’t heard the question. Simon’s attention appeared focused on scanning the crowd of passers-by for any that might pose a threat. Given the predominance of templars and mages in the crowd, his hand had dropped to his sword hilt a dozen times since they sat down. Rory had tried to reason with him; surely no one attending the Conclave would dare breach the Divine’s Peace. Simon had not shared their faith.

“Simon?” Rory tried again. This time, Simon turned to look at them. “I was just wondering what I was doing here.”

“Why would I know?” Simon replied testily. “You’re the one who was so insistent about coming, and, for that matter, the one who was specifically invited by Divine Proclamation. I’m just here to try to keep you from getting killed.”

That wasn’t the threat that most troubled Rory. “I just didn’t expect so many people to want to _talk_ to me,” they complained.

Simon looked amused, which struck Rory as rude. “You expected the end of a war to be negotiated in complete silence?”

“No, but I didn’t realize that _everyone_ would want to talk through the issues one-on-one. I’m sure the only reason I was invited was all the letters I wrote…”

“And there were a _lot_ of those,” Simon muttered. Rory couldn’t begrudge him the comment, given all the paper, ink, and messengers that had drained his purse.

“But I’m no good at conversation! If they would just put their arguments down on paper and give me time to respond…” Rory’s voice came out as a loud whine. Curious faces in the crowd turned toward Rory, prompting them to hide their head in their hands.

The twins were perched on a low wall in the village of Haven, presently jammed full of people – dignitaries attending the Conclave, their entourages, and more common pilgrims. The latter, Simon had noted, had been quite put out to learn that the Temple of Sacred Ashes had been closed to them in preparation for the coming negotiations. It had taken the Chantry’s harried clerks the better part of a day to find lodging for Rory and Simon, and they’d wound up in a cramped, foul-smelling room in the pilgrims’ quarters up the hill. Rory tried not to speculate about the purposes to which the room had been put by the so-called Disciples of Andraste.

Simon had quickly grown restless in their quarters and dragged Rory down here under the pretext that they would be able to watch the arrivals for familiar faces. Rory had not protested. The smell was nauseating, and the pilgrims’ quarters were stuffed full of mages, templars, and other notables with an apparently inexhaustible appetite for talk. It was worst whenever there was a point of disagreement – inevitably, Rory’s words rushed out in a torrent and their voice got squeaky. It made it hard to be taken seriously.

Rory peeked at the crowd, who seemed to have lost interest in them. They raised their head to look at Simon. “I’d have done more good to stay in Denerim and keep writing letters. How do you talk to people so easily?”

Simon furrowed his brow. “It helps if you don’t start out talking about anything consequential. Smile. Ask them how they’re doing, about their opinions. People like talking about themselves.”

“But then how do _my_ points get made?”

“Uh… you slip them in? Work the conversation around, so they think it’s their own idea?”

For once, Rory suspected that Simon was making this up as he went along. “It would be a lot easier if you could handle the talking.”

“I’d consider it if I understood what they’re talking about,” Simon said, rolling his eyes. “’Preserving the preeminence of the Aequitarians is vital to ensuring a stable peace, don’t you agree?’ Maker’s balls, I have no idea!”

“The Aequitarians _were_ preeminent,” Rory protested. “That didn’t keep things from falling apart in the first place!”

“See? You should tell them that.”

Rory sighed. “It’s easier when it’s just you. You don’t actually care about the Aequitarians.”

“Should I?” Simon asked, a bit sharply.

Rory looked off into the distance. “No. It’s all just politics, factions of Enchanters jockeying for power within the College of Magi. I never thought they were relevant to-” They broke off as they caught sight of a familiar face in the crowd. “Maker, that’s Emris!”

“Who?”

Rory ignored Simon’s question, clambering to their feet and standing atop the wall. The crowd looked up at them, but now Rory only had eyes for one person among them. Rory waved their hands energetically above their head, shouting Emris’s name.

After half a dozen shouts, Emris looked up to the wall and returned Rory’s wave. He turned and said something to the man walking next to him, and the two men briefly clasped arms. Then Emris headed in Rory’s direction, as quickly as the crowd would allow. Rory, now conscious of the eyes of the crowd, turned around and slid off the wall to the ground behind. Simon, still on the wall, gestured Emris toward the slope running up to Rory’s side of the wall – the route was not obvious. Emris reappeared around the wall and ran to meet them.

They stood face to face, looking at each other a bit awkwardly. Rory had _thought_ about what they’d say if they saw Emris here – something intelligent and considered – but what came out of their mouth was just, “You’re here.” _Oh, Maker_.

“You’re here, too,” Emris said, breathless, and Rory felt a little better.

Simon slid from the wall to join them. “Who’s this, Rory?”

“Emris, formerly a templar of the Ostwick Circle,” Emris said.

Rory saw Simon start to frown and hastily interjected, “And a friend of mine.”

“Ah,” Simon said. “I’m Simon Trevelyan, Rory’s brother.”

“I know,” Emris said. Simon gave him a puzzled look, and Emris explained, “You used to visit Rory, and I was sometimes the templar set to watch you. And Rory talked a great deal about you.”

“He did, did he?” Rory suspected Simon would want to talk about that later.

Emris turned his attention to Rory. “I heard that you’ve been sending letters, but I didn’t know if I could hope to see you here. I don’t remember you being comfortable in crowds.”

“That hasn’t changed,” said Rory, grateful for the wall blocking their view of the crowd. “But I’m so glad to see you. I hadn’t heard… I didn’t even know if you were alive or dead.” Impulsively, they reached out and gripped Emris’s shoulder, reassured by its solidity.

Emris looked at the ground. “Something you should know, Rory… I met someone, another templar opposed to the war. We’ve been traveling together for almost a year now. We’re planning on settling down together, once the war ends.”

Simon coughed loudly once, then turned away, covering his mouth.

“Oh. I’m… I’m happy for you,” Rory stammered. Happiness was, at least, among the confused welter of emotions they were feeling. It had been years since they broke off their tryst. They had no claim on Emris; above all, they wanted him to be happy. And yet… they couldn’t banish their feelings of envy and hurt. Rory had never been jealous of Simon and his string of lovers – that was nothing they wanted – but they felt a pang at Emris’s anticipated domesticity.

“What’s their name?” Rory added, in an effort to cover their confusion.

“Florian. He’s from Orlais, originally.”

“So, Ser Emris and Ser Florian?” Rory said, trying the words out in their mouth.

“No,” Emris said sharply. Rory flinched, startled, and Simon wheeled around, mouth still covered. “I’m sorry, Rory,” Emris continued. “But Florian and I have both left the Order. I had thought that I could be a voice for peace within the Templars, but the commands that were coming down… Hearing about Liann and Elora was the last straw.”

“Liann and Elora? What happened?”

Now it was Emris’s turn to reach out and put a hand on Rory’s arm. “I’m so sorry, Rory, I thought you knew. They were killed by templars.”

“They hadn’t joined the rebel mages, had they?” Rory couldn’t see Liann, their patient mentor, taking up the fight. They couldn’t recall Elora ever speaking of it one way or another.

“As if that mattered to the templars,” Simon muttered behind his hand.

“No, they hadn’t,” Emris said. “They had taken shelter in the Chantry in Tantervale with a few other mages. A band of templars pursued them into the Chantry and killed several acolytes along with the mages. They had no orders to breach the chantry. I expected the Knight-Captains to bring the murderers to trial, but instead they were praised for ‘showing initiative.’ I couldn’t stay after that.”

“The Divine won’t let crimes like these go unpunished,” Rory said earnestly. “Surely the Order will expel and punish the templars who turned to slaughtering innocents.” _The sort who tried to kill us_. “You could help rebuild a better Order with the templars who wanted to protect mages, not harm them.”

Emris shook his head. “I’m here to argue for justice for the crimes done, and I’d like to see a better Order rise, but I’ll never be a templar again. I’ll seek out a trade that doesn’t involve poisoning myself.”

“What do you mean?” Rory asked.

“Florian and I weaned ourselves off of lyrium. I haven’t taken any for…” He paused to count. “Seven months now. I’ve no wish to go back on it. The Chantry can find itself new servants.”

Rory was shocked by how bitter Emris sounded. He had always believed in the righteousness of the Templar Order. Or so Rory had thought – had they simply assumed that Emris felt as they did? How many templars had secretly resented their service? “Do you know if any other templars left the Order?”

 “Knight-Commander Nuala left as soon as the Circles were dissolved,” Emris said, sounding a bit calmer. “She said that if mages and templars were bent on killing each other, very well, but she’d have no part in it. I think she went back to Starkhaven; she had family there. Most of the others stayed with Tanner. I tried to convince Ser Hannah to leave with me, but she was adamant that, whatever we felt about Tanner, we’d sworn an oath to follow our superior’s orders. I couldn’t sway her, but she didn’t stand in the way of me leaving. I don’t know what’s become of them since then.”

 _Maker, keep him from asking about Ser Tomos_. Emris might well understand why Rory had done what they’d done, but Rory still didn’t think he would ever look at Rory the same way again. And Rory didn’t want to think about the burning tavern, the templars’ screams…

“I don’t know as much about the mages,” Emris continued, breaking Rory out of their unpleasant reverie. “I know Rion and Linnea went to fight with the rebels.” That came as no surprise to Rory – both had been among the fiercest advocates of the Libertarian cause in Ostwick. “Lydia sided with the Loyalists, but she was assassinated early in the war. The rebel mages have their share of blood on their hands. I don’t know about any others.”

“I haven’t heard anything,” Rory said. “We spent the last year in Denerim. It was safer there, but we didn’t get much news.” And had hardly been able to include a return address with their letters.

“So much has been torn apart by this war,” Emris said. “And for what? What has anyone gained from this? That’s why I came. The Divine has to put an end to this.”

“She will,” Rory said with confidence.

“I hope you’re right. Rory, I’m sorry, but I left Florian standing down there. I’ll see you at the Conclave, all right? And you, Simon.”

Simon made a muffled noise. “All right,” Rory said reluctantly. They’d given up their say in whether Emris stayed or went long ago. Their eyes stayed on Emris until he disappeared back down the slope.

Rory turned to Simon and saw that their twin was staring at them, hands over his mouth and cheeks red. He looked, Rory would imagine, like a volcano about to erupt.

“What?” Rory asked.

Simon removed his hands from his mouth and burst into a gale of laughter. Rory did their best to glare at him.

“ _What_?”

Between chuckles, Simon managed to get out, “You were sleeping with the templar?”

Rory frantically shushed him. Simon repeated, with more certainty, “You were sleeping with the templar!”

“Please stop saying that.”

“I, just, I always knew you loved the templars. But I didn’t realize that you _loved_ the templars!” Simon dissolved into laughter again.

“It was only a little while. A long time ago,” Rory said, trying to sound dismissive.

“It seemed like you might still have feelings for him.”

“No. I don’t,” Rory said. “Not the way he does. Did. Would you please drop it?” The pain that Rory kept insisting to themselves they should not be feeling came through in their voice.

Simon said, “Sorry, Rory,” and gave them an apologetic pat on the back. “Anyway, it’s good to have another person at the Conclave who doesn’t want you murdered.”

“ _Nobody_ is getting murdered at the Conclave,” Rory said, greeting the return of this argument with a certain amount of relief. They did have faith in the Divine’s ability to prevent bloodshed. And Emris was here, now, and could speak for peace and justice far more eloquently than Rory could. It was great comfort to think that the war would soon be over, and then Rory could return to the quiet of a Circle.

 

 

**Simon: J is for Joined**

“What the hell is that?” Simon demanded.

The sky above them was a massive, churning waste in a sickly green color. Clouds... or something... seemed to be boiling, swirling, filling half the sky with their movement.

“We call it the Breach,” said their escort.

Simon looked at her warily. She had yet to introduce herself, but carried herself as if no one would question her authority. Her face was sharp and stern, and he had no doubt that she knew how to use the weapons she carried. Probably better than Simon herself did, for that matter.

Beside Simon, Rory stared wide-eyed up at the thing they called the Breach. They began to ask a question, but then light erupted, as if the thing were a cauldron boiling over.

Pain shot up Simon’s left arm and he found himself doubled over, gasping, clutching his hand to his chest. Beneath the skin, yellow-green light pulsed, radiating out through the bones and veins, much as yellow lightning erupted above. Out of the corner of Simon’s eye, he saw Rory also bent over, light shining from their right hand.

“Every time the Breach erupts, that mark spreads. For both of you. You are linked, to it and to each other,” the woman said. “And it is killing you.”

Simon bit back several particularly choice oaths. What a way to wake up. One moment he had been hanging around the Conclave with not nearly enough to do, following Rory about and casting dark glances at any templar who dared to come near them, and the next, he was waking up chained and shackled in some cell while this monstrosity loomed over their heads. Or at least, that was as far as he could remember. There must have been at least several hours in between — a few days, more like, to judge from the aches in his muscles — but his mind supplied nothing of the in-between. The only good thing was that Rory had been there, too — likewise shackled, and missing their spectacles, seeming as stunned and bewildered as Simon felt — but at least Simon knew where Rory was

Simon kept his mouth shut, for the most part, as he and Rory trailed after the woman. She was still talking, in terse, bitten-off explanations, but it was all beyond Simon’s ken. The Divine dead, the Conclave attacked, and this… hole in the sky… it was all a lot ot take in. Simon kept an eye on their surroundings instead. The armed men on the bridge parted before their escort, and by extension themselves, but they stared. Worse than that, they were on edge, tense and flinching, already armed or reaching for their weapons.

“You think we had something to do with this!” Rory exclaimed, and Simon’s attention jerked back toward his companions.

The woman regarded them with tight lips. “What are we supposed to think?”

“But we didn’t! We wouldn’t have... I don’t even know how...” Rory was getting a thoughtful expression, and glanced up at the sky again.

“We had nothing to do with it,” Simon said brusquely, hoping to cut off any magical speculation on Rory’s part. He doubted the nervous people around them would take well to it.

“So you say,” the woman said, and turned her back, evidently expecting them to follow.

* * *

As they crossed a stone bridge over a frozen pond, the Breach pulsed again. While Simon and Rory were cringing from the pain, the bridge exploded in green fire, the stones crumbling beneath them. They tumbled down the embankment and over the pond. By the time Simon struggled to his feet, strange, twisted green creatures were swarming out of the air itself. A chill raced down Simon’s spine.

“Demons,” the woman spat. “They come from the Breach. Stay behind me!” and drawing her sword, charged off across the ice.

She might possibly be mad, Simon concluded. Rory was squinting after her, muttering, “Demons?” in an anxious voice.

Simon supposed they must be demons. He’d certainly never seen the like before. He opened and closed his hands. He felt naked without weapons, exposed and helpless to protect either himself or Rory, and he hated it. He glanced to the side, and a glint of metal caught his attention: a couple of dead men lay huddled in the snow. He did not like to steal from the dead, but their own need was surely greater. He strode over and tugged the man’s sword and shield from their places. Whoever the dead man was, he hadn’t even had a chance to draw his weapon; a pity. Nearby was what looked like a mage’s staff; Simon caught it up and thrust it in Rory’s direction.

“But she said...” Rory protested.

“Do you really want to be unarmed with demons about?” Simon demanded.

Rory took the staff without further comment. Simon turned back and found that he’d moved not a moment too soon; a few of the creatures had broken off from the pack and were bobbing across the ice toward them. Quickly, he raised his shield and dropped into a defensive stance. “Rory, stay behind me.”

“Where are they?” Rory asked.

Right, Rory could barely see. “Ah, straight ahead of me, and one ahead and sword-side.” It reminded him of when they were children, before their parents had realized that Rory needed spectacles, and Simon had sometimes guided his twin around.

The first of the demons was on them then, and Simon struck at it, a cautious swing. He had no real idea what to expect from such things. These had spindly limbs and screeched at them out of misshapen beaks, but their claws clanged off his shield with real force. His blow landed, a glancing hit, but at least the thing had some sort of body that could be cut. Green liquid seeped from the wound Simon had cut, less than a man would have bled, he thought.

Behind him, Simon could hear Rory muttering incantations, and the staff they carried thumped into the ground. They had had to fight together — against templars the once, or bandits or wild animals — often enough that Simon thought he knew what to expect, but fire burst from Rory’s direction in a wild arc. Simon flung himself to the side on instinct, and the flame still singed the shoulder of his jerkin. Two of the demons shrieked and went up like bundles of dry twigs, though, so Simon wasn’t minded to complain.

“Sorry!” Rory cried. “I can’t—”

“Later,” Simon called back, fending off a blow from the creature in front of him. It didn’t seem to have the wit to feint, at least, and with a few more blows he brought the thing down. It wailed and collapsed into a pile of unidentifiable greenish lumps. Simon grimaced in disgust and stepped back, lowering his blade.

Their escort was striding back toward them, having dispatched her own mob of demons, apparently. Her jaw was set, and she still had her weapon in hand. She aimed her blade at Simon, in fact, and said coldly, “Drop your weapons.”

Simon had little doubt that she could best him in very little time. He dropped his borrowed sword and shield and raised his hands. “All right, have it your way.”

“I don’t need a weapon to be dangerous,” Rory said matter-of-factly.

Simon gritted his teeth. Simply fantastic, Rory, yes, let’s do alarm the very dangerous lady and remind her you’re a mage. He tried to turn his clenched-teeth grimace into a smile.

Her eyes were hard as she looked from one of them to the other, but then, to Simon’s surprise, she sighed and lowered her weapon. “You’re right, and I can’t protect you,” she said. She tilted her chin toward the weapons Simon had just discarded. “Arm yourself, so we can continue. I should remember you agreed to come willingly.”

* * *

Everyone noticed when Simon and Rory entered Haven’s little tavern.

But then, these days, people noticed when either Simon or Rory went anywhere. Not that Rory had been going much of anywhere at all, which is why Simon had dragged them down here in the first place.

“Is everybody looking at us?” Rory whispered, squinting at the crowd.

“Yes,” Simon said, putting on a smile. He made a casual wave toward the assembled eyes (with his good hand; people sometimes got a little on edge if the mark happened to be acting up) and kept a good grip on Rory’s arm with the other, lest Rory flee. “Just smile. It’ll be fine.”

“I don’t know about this,” Rory said under their breath.

“I do. You’ve been cooped up in there far too long.” They’d been sent to new quarters up near the Chantry. Not a cell, thank the Maker, and considerably less… aromatic than their previous quarters. Besides, they were allowed to come and go freely, a privilege Simon had exercised regularly. Rory, however, had been huddling up there, hardly showing their face outside except for the occasional meal.

Simon understood: this whole business was harder on Rory than on himself. Rory had had friends, acquaintances, and correspondents among the Conclave, including their former lover. Rory had had genuine faith in the late Divine Justinia’s ability to make peace and restore the Circles, something Simon had always been more dubious about, though he’d largely kept his doubts to himself. Besides all that, Rory was more practically hampered by their new circumstances than Simon. They’d never managed to find Rory’s spectacles, and Rory was having difficulty controlling their magic, as well. Rory had been spending that isolated time peering at the whatever books could be scrounged up for them, holding the pages only inches from their nose.

But even so, it had been three days, and it couldn’t be good for a person to lock themselves up alone while struggling so.

Moreover, everyone was curious about both of them, and since hardly anyone had seen Rory, the speculation was starting to turn a bit scurrilous. Far better for Rory to show their face and let people see they weren’t some kind of terrifying murderous rebel mage.

Simon therefore towed Rory over toward the bar before letting go of Rory’s sleeve. He leaned one elbow on the counter and flashed his best smile at Flissa behind it. “Good afternoon, Flissa, you’re looking lovely today.”

She smiled back. Giggled, even, just a little, showing rather pretty dimples. “Hello yourself, Herald. Heralds.”

“No need for that,” Simon said, keeping the smile. “The usual for me, if you please, and wine for my twin. Well-watered, if you don’t mind.”

“Not at all,” she said, setting about pouring. “You’re twins, truly?”

They exchanged inconsequential chat, and Simon agreed how unusual it was to be twins, and Flissa refused to charge him for the drink, as usual. Simon dropped a couple of coins on the bar as he turned away anyway.

“How do you do that?” Rory murmured.

“Do what?”

“Just… flirt with people like that!”

“That was barely even flirting,” Simon said. “Just smile and be friendly, that’s all.” He spied Varric Tethras ensconced at a table in the corner. Varric, catching his eye, waved them over, so Simon steered Rory in that direction, with a low-voiced “two steps to your right, then straight on, watch for the chair on the left.”

They made it to Varric’s table with only two stumbles over errant furniture.

“How’s it going, Heralds?” Varric greeted them.

Simon made a wry face. “No need to call us that.”

“Lord Trevelyan, then? Or Trevelyans?”

Simon made another face and sipped his ale. Rory said hesitantly, “Mages don’t… can’t have such titles.”

“Lord Trevelyan’s our father,” Simon added. “But I’m guessing you knew that.” Varric was a Marcher himself, Simon knew, and besides, Varric seemed to have a way of knowing just about everybody and everything. Or he could fake it, which was almost as good, and Simon rather admired the skill. It wasn’t really what he’d expected from a writer, somehow.

“Figured you two had to be some sort of relation,” Varric said easily.

Rory stared at the table. Simon muttered, “You could say that,” and took a larger drink.

“Ah,” Varric said. “That kind of relation. Enough said.”

“Quite,” Simon agreed. The last thing he wanted was to talk about the family.

Rory shifted in their seat. “I hadn’t expected to find the author of _The Tale of the Champion_ here.”

“Oh, you’ve read it?”

“Of course.” Rory fiddled with their glass of wine. “It was important to understanding the background of the mage rebellion. I don’t agree with the rebels’ position, of course, particularly the, um, more extreme elements, but I found the book helpful, if not entirely impartial.”

Varric’s eyebrows twitched. “Impartial?”

“I just read it for the exciting bits,” Simon put in. “The bit with the rock golem was good.” Rory had read substantial sections of the book to him, in fact, often with Rory’s own hand-waving and commentary along with it.

Varric snorted. Rory, subsiding, drank, and then set down the glass of wine hastily.

“Everything all right?” Simon asked.

“It’s still a little strong,” Rory muttered.

“Not much head for it?” Varric inquired.

“No, I… no,” Rory said.

To change the subject, Simon said, “So is it true that Seeker Pentaghast had you arrested?”

Varric chuckled, leaning back in his chair. “Arrested, theatened, hauled all the way here to the frozen end of nowhere just to tell my story all over again to the Divine. Of course, she had the two of you locked up, too. Guess she needs all of us now.”

“I suppose so,” Simon agreed. He felt suddenly, absurdly self-conscious about his hand, lying open on the table.

“She must have had a reason,” Rory said. “She’s the Right Hand of the Divine, after all.”

“She had reasons, all right,” Varric said. “Not necessarily good ones, but reasons.”

Rory frowned at that, and took another, more cautious sip of their wine. Simon put in, “Rory’s something of an admirer.”

“She’s the Hero of Orlais as well as Right Hand of the Divine!” Rory’s voice went up in pitch. “She’s quite extraordinary.”

Varric inclined his head toward Simon. “And what do you think of our Lady Seeker?”

Simon laughed and took a drink. “I think she could wipe the floor with me, so I’d rather not cross her.” She also had a way of looking at him that made him want to apologize for being so deep a disappointment, and his smiling attempts to be ingratiating hadn’t earned him more than a huff and a moment of silence from her.

“Wise man,” Varric said, tipping his glass. Simon raised his until their rims clicked together. “What do you think of this Inquisition business?” he asked as Simon drank.

“If it’s what the Divine intended…” Rory said, and trailed off, frowning. “I should like to read the writ for myself. I’m not quite sure what she did intend.”

Simon put down his mug and found Varric was still looking at him inquiringly. He shrugged in response. “I suppose someone has to try to restore order. The Chantry certainly hasn’t managed it.”

“They’ve done their best,” Rory muttered.

“Anyone trying to keep order has their work cut out for them,” Varric said. His habitual smile faded away, leaving his face heavy-lined.

“The commander’s also from Kirkwall, isn’t he?” Simon asked.

“Right,” Varric said, shaking off his momentary mood.

“He’s a templar, isn’t he?” Rory ventured.

“Yeah. Or was,” Varric said. “Left the order for the Inquisition.” He glanced at Simon. “Think he could wipe the floor with you, too?”

Simon shrugged. He hadn’t seen as much of Cullen’s own skills with a sword, and the man had been dour and distracted when Simon had tried to talk to him. “Can’t tell, but the soldiers seem to respect him.”

Varric hummed and nodded. Rory shifted in their seat. “I should, ah… Simon, where’s the…?”

“Hm? Oh.” Simon quickly gave directions to the latrine, and watched Rory make their way toward the door.

“Is he doing all right?” Varric asked quietly. At Simon’s glance, he added, “Sorry. They.”

Simon had made a point of cluing people in about Rory’s preferences, so Rory didn’t have to do it themselves. Now he shrugged, uncomfortable under Varric’s gaze. It didn’t seem right to let on about Rory’s bollixed magic. Instead he said, “Rory’s nearsighted, but their spectacles got lost somewhere, so it’s been a little difficult.”

“Ah. I can ask around if anyone’s seen them?”

“I expect they’re in the Fade, or broken, but that would be a kindness anyway. Thank you.” Simon hesitated, not sure if he should mention the other reason for Rory’s unhappiness. “Rory had a good friend at the Conclave, too, gone now.”

Varric nodded. “That’s a shame. Listen, you’ve been in the council room, do you know what the plan is now that we’re an Inquisition?”

Simon shrugged. “A lot of it’s over my head. Ask Rory if you want to talk theories on the Fade, and whatever this is.” He waved his left hand. “And politics, Maker preserve me, I never knew or wanted to know so much about Chantry politics.”

Varric chuckled. “That makes… most of us, I think.”

Simon went on, “But they seem to have reached a consensus to send the two of us out with a party and see if we can… well, if we can do that again.” He waggled his hand vaguely in the direction of the ceiling. “Our friendly bald local apostate seems to think it will work, at least.”

“Send to where?”

“The hinterlands around Redcliffe, I gather. It’s not far from here, and they seem to be hoping we’ll put on a bit of a show and win some people over. Evidently there’s some Revered Mother in the area they hope can help us.” Simon shrugged and drank.

“Hm.” Varric tapped his chin thoughtfully. “Mind if I come along?”

“You’d do better to ask the Seeker,” Simon said. The dwarf was clever and a good shot, it would certainly be good to have him along, but: “It’s hardly up to me.”

Varric’s smile was a quick flash of teeth. “Suppose I will, then.”

 


	11. K is for Kinship and Knowing

**Simon: K is for Kinship**

Simon smiled into the face of the handsomest man he’d ever seen. He hadn’t quite managed to catch the fellow’s name, but he’d been more than happy to find a private room with him. Exquisite eyes, practically mesmerizing — a sleek, leanly muscled body — a dazzling smile — Simon watched as the other man slowly ran his tongue over full, moist lips, promising. “Oh, we will have some fun, won’t we?”

“Yes,” Simon agreed, and reached out to pull him closer.

“Simon. Simon. Simon, don’t.”

Simon reluctantly tore his gaze from the vision in front of him and turned his head to spy Rory standing to the side, covering their eyes with their hand. “What?” Simon said, wondering vaguely how this had happened. He’d been very careful about locking doors since that one night when Rory had walked in on Simon and a particularly handsome elf. “Whyever not?”

“Because that’s a demon, Simon!”

Simon pulled away, on instinct, because Rory didn’t lie, only to frown in confusion. “What? He is not!”

“Of course I’m not,” the man purred. “Is that your twin? He’s just jealous.”

Simon jerked away, puzzled. Nothing seemed to fit any more. Where was he, anyway, and how had he gotten there? He remembered meeting this fellow. Didn’t he? But where? His memory seemed to be fuzzy. Their surroundings seemed fuzzy, too. “No,” he said slowly. “Rory doesn’t get jealous. Not like that.”

“Thank you,” said Rory.

The man hissed in disappointment. His face was twisting, his tanned skin taking on a strange shimmering cast. Simon recoiled as the man’s shape warped further, and the room around them faded.

“Don’t listen,” he said, “we can do anything you want.”

“I don’t think so,” Simon gasped.

The thing — demon — bared its teeth, now long fangs, and brandished hands turned clawed. But Rory spoke, and fire shot from their staff to engulf the demon in flames, and it screeched.

The fight was over quickly, though Simon had little to do with it. He sat, feeling both stunned and stupid, until the demon had faded to ashes.

“But how did it get here?”

“We’re in the Fade,” Rory said. “Would you please put something on?”

“What?” Simon was still naked, he realized. Rory was pointedly looking away, fully dressed and wearing their spectacles as well. “How do I…?”

“Just… try imagining yourself with clothes on, at least,” Rory said, covering their eyes with one hand.

That did seem to be all it took for Simon to be in his own shirt and breeches. He ran his hands through his hair. It felt like hair. He’d never had a dream this vivid in his life. “What do you mean, we’re in the Fade? And how do you have your specs again?” Simon said.

“Because I’m asleep,” Rory said, sounding a little exasperated, and Simon immediately felt like a fool. “We’re both asleep, and dreaming.”

“But I’m not a mage,” Simon said. “How could I be in the Fade?”

“It must be the mark,” Rory said. Their hands lit up in unison, casting unearthly green light over their surroundings. Simon’s hand throbbed with pain.

“I hate it when it does that,” Simon muttered, crossing his arms with his hands tucked against his sides, even though it didn’t cover the glow. He felt childish, but there was no one around to keep a good face for now.

“I don’t like it any better,” Rory said, but they were staring at their glimmering palm in fascination. “I can’t see it properly when I’m awake, though… but somehow, we’re sharing the same dream.”

Simon shivered as he took that in and remembered what Rory had said about possession. He glanced about uneasily, but no demons appeared to be about to leap out and catch them. “How do we get out of it?”

“We have to wake up,” Rory said.

“Wake up?” Simon repeated. “But how do we…”

He opened his eyes. He was in his bed, bundled in blankets against Haven’s chill. “Did that just happen?” Simon muttered.

“Yes,” came Rory’s voice from the other bed.

“So we had the same dream,” Simon said.

He could hear Rory moving around, and the candle on the stand between their beds lit, lending a little brightness and warmth to the dim gray of the morning.

“But that shouldn’t be happening,” said Simon uneasily, clenching his left hand into a fist. “That isn’t… safe? Is it? You always said…” He trailed off.

Rory hesitated before answering, a good deal longer than Simon liked. He fidgeted on the edge of the bed, waiting, before Rory finally said, “I don’t know.”

“There was a demon,” Simon pointed out, voice rising.

“I know,” Rory said, running their fingers through their hair. “But at least I was there too, and there was no harm done. If we’re in the Fade together…”

“I suppose that’s not so bad,” Simon admitted. Rory was used to dealing with the Fade and demons, after all — at least a little bit — but Simon still wasn’t too keen on the idea. What would the demon have done if Rory wasn’t there? He shuddered.

“Are you all right?” Rory asked.

“Fine.” Simon rose so he could pace. “You got rid of the demon, and I suppose it can’t possess me, so…”

“Er, actually,” Rory said.

Simon wheeled around to stare at Rory. “What?”

“Non-mages can be possessed,” Rory said, looking apologetic. “It just doesn’t happen as often. Besides, with the mark, who knows?”

Simon stared at Rory in horror. “Shouldn’t we talk to someone about this?”

“Who would we talk to?”

“Solas?” Simon suggested. “I know you don’t like him,” Simon added hastily when Rory frowned. He didn’t entirely understand Rory’s reaction, to be honest. “But he seems to know more about these things than anyone else.”

“He does things that are dangerous,” Rory said. “You’re right, though, he does have expertise. We should just be cautious. He doesn’t have Circle training, after all.”

“Right,” Simon said, though he wasn’t quite sure what difference that made.

#

“The mark creates a bond between you,” Solas said calmly, “and we have already seen that it also connects you both to the Fade. I suppose it should come as no surprise that the link has unpredictable consequences.”

“Simon isn’t a mage,” Rory said.

Solas arched his eyebrows. “Clearly.”

“He shouldn’t be able to experience the Fade as a mage does.”

Solas tilted his head. “I would surmise that either the mark itself allows him to experience the Fade as a mage would, or your own tie as siblings does. Or perhaps it’s the combination of the two.”

Rory frowned in frustration. Simon said, “Is it dangerous?”

“Anything can be dangerous,” Solas said.

“I mean…” Simon trailed off, unsure how to express his own dread, or Rory’s concerns.

Rory took up the conversation, fortunately. “If Simon is the equivalent of an untrained mage dreaming in the Fade, he might be particularly vulnerable to demons, even to possession.”

“Some spirits may indeed find the mark of some interest, which is true for either of you,” Solas said. “If it is possession you fear, resisting possession is always an act of will.”

“Well, I’m good at stubborn,” Simon said, trying to keep things light. Solas’ lips twitched. Rory sighed.

“And in any case, you have certainly not become a mage, correct?” Solas asked.

Simon snorted. “No, no flaming sparks here.”

“Magic can manifest in any number of ways,” Solas said, dark brows pulling together. “But I’ve seen no signs of magic from you.”

“Only whatever is connected to the mark,” Rory said. “But that hardly means there’s no risk.”

“I never said there was no risk,” Solas said. “Has it occurred frequently? This sharing of dreams?”

Simon and Rory exchanged glances. “I don’t remember any before now,” Simon said hesitantly. He’d gone to sleep a little fuzzed with drink, some nights.

“Nor I,” Rory said.

“And have your dreams been unusual? Particularly vivid?”

Simon searched his memory as best he could and shrugged, helplessly. “I don’t recall anything out of the ordinary.”

“I would suppose the risk is slight, then. It is no easy thing to manipulate the Fade, even for one with both the natural talent and the training to do so, so it seems unlikely that you would make any alteration by accident.”

“I was more concerned with the risk to Simon,” Rory said tightly.

“If you are in the Fade together, then you will accordingly face any dangers together,” Solas pointed out. “As for the rest, we must trust that your will is sufficient, mustn’t we?”

Somehow Simon didn’t find that particularly comforting. Defying the family was one thing, but demons? Surely that would be more difficult.

“I’m sorry that wasn’t more helpful,” Rory said once they’d departed.

Simon brushed it off. “It’ll be fine. I just have to be stubborn. I can manage stubborn.” He wasn’t sure if he was trying more to convince Rory not to worry, or himself.

“It’s a little more complicated than that—” Rory said, which was not at all what Simon wanted to hear.

“Don’t worry about me,” he said with all the cheer he could muster. “Look, it’s a fine morning, at least.” It was, cold but bright and bracing, nearly windless. “I might as well get in some practice since we’re up.”

“All right,” said Rory, a little dubiously, and Simon set off toward the gate with no more said.

A troop of recruits was yawning their way through drills to one side of the practice yard, but there were plenty of spare training dummies on the other side. Simon equipped himself and started in.

Each blow rang through his shoulder and back, and slowly the exertion began to clear the cobwebs from his head. Too much strangeness, that was all — the damned mark dragging him into the Fade, into Rory’s dream (or Rory into his), where Simon wasn’t meant to be. Then there was the lingering embarrassment of being caught out with a demon, of all things, and what had the demon intended? All of it was far beyond him, but a fellow couldn’t help but worry when he was suddenly surrounded by magic that no one seemed to understand.

Simon understood this, at least: his shield arm might not be entirely his own any more, but he could bear his shield and sword and practice his forms. Rory hadn’t even that, still sorting out how to cast spells with the mark’s strange magic throwing them off. Simon could still carry arms and protect them both.

“You’re working hard today,” said a voice behind him.

Simon straightened and turned to face Cassandra. Any other day, he might have laughed it off, but today he hadn’t yet purged out his frustration, so he said, “As opposed to?”

The Seeker blinked, looking startled. It gave Simon a little satisfaction to take her aback so. She said, “I meant only that I do not usually see you practicing so early. It’s good to see you take something seriously.”

Simon’s eyes narrowed. She probably meant nothing by it. She was a serious person herself, certainly. He’d seen enough of her strength and skill on their recent trip to the hinterlands of Redcliffe to know that his initial estimate of her was correct. She was far more skilled than he. No doubt she was used to more discipline with the Seekers of Truth than she saw here, and it was true Simon wasn’t always an early riser.

Still, he wasn’t willing to let this pass, for once. He said, “I think you’ll find that I take my twin’s safety quite seriously.”

Cassandra considered that and nodded. “Your loyalty is commendable.”

“Thank you,” Simon said dryly. He added, “I’ve nothing against the Inquisition. If we can help, we will. But I put my own first.”

“I understand,” she said. “Would you care to spar?”

“Absolutely,” he said. He might not understand demons, or magic, or the Maker-forsaken mark on his hand, and he would not equal Cassandra’s skill with a day’s training, but he’d be a fool not to learn what he could from her.

 

**Rory: K is for Knowing**

Rory detested War Table meetings, but Simon kept insisting that Rory accompany him, or better yet, go in his stead. “Between the strategy and the magic stuff, I can’t make any sense of it, Rory! You’re the one who’ll understand what they’re talking about.” Rory doubted that very much, but Simon would not be moved, and Josephine had added that it would indeed be best for both Heralds to attend. So Rory dutifully tagged along behind Simon on their visits to the room in the back of the Chantry.

They were fairly sure, though, that they had not yet spoken a word in any of these meetings. Rory was exquisitely conscious that they were sharing a small room with not one Hand of the Divine, but both of them. _Former_ Hands of the Divine, more properly, but the air of majesty lent by the title still clung to them both. And then there were a former Templar Knight-Commander and Josephine, whose words could soothe like honey or sting like a wasp. Rory imagined their voice stammering and cracking before this august assembly, and opted to remain silent. Even if they had a strong opinion on the topic of discussion, all they could do was plan to discuss it with Simon once the two were alone.

At this particular meeting, far too many people were trying to speak at once as it stood. “Enough!” Simon bellowed over the bedlam, thumping a fist against the surface of the war table and causing the candles on it to waver alarmingly. Leliana and Cullen rushed to secure them as Simon went on, more temperately. “I know we have many opinions here, but can we hear them singly? Perhaps beginning with Commander Cullen?”

Cullen inclined his head in acknowledgement. “I recommend that we approach the Templar Order,” he said. “They have trained extensively to neutralize dangerous magics. There must be Templars who remain true to their mission and would aid us. The Lord Seeker, whatever game he is playing, can’t have corrupted the whole order.”

Rory nodded emphatically, hoping their agreement was registering with Simon.

“Their training,” Josephine put in, “can’t possibly have encompassed anything like the Breach. Can we be certain they would know how to close it? And have the power to do so?”

“No more,” Cullen said curtly, “than we can be sure the rebel mages could do the same.”

Simon waved a hand. “All right, all right, let’s take for granted that no one knows if their plan would actually work. Josephine, I gather you would favor working with the mages?”

Rory tried to keep their face neutral, but feared that their lips were turning down nonetheless. Much as they admired and even liked Josephine, they thought her experience dealing with mages insufficient.

“I would,” she agreed. “Their understanding of whatever magics created the Breach is likely to be more complete than the Templars’. And they have already made an overture to us in Val Royeux.”

“Doubtless, they want to enlist our support for their cause,” Cassandra said dourly. Rory nodded again.

“Still, we know they want to speak with us. The Templars may not be as receptive, and there’s the additional complication of the Lord Seeker’s influence,” Josephine added.

“Thank you. Cassandra?” Simon prompted.

Rory’s stomach clenched in anticipation of Cassandra’s reply. They leaned forward across the table and squinted, trying to bring Cassandra’s face into focus. Once again, they missed their old spectacles. The ones Simon had found in Val Royeux barely helped beyond an arm’s length.

 “I would favor approaching the templars,” she said. “The mages are more likely to view closing the Breach as simply a bargaining chip, their chance to embroil us in their war,” she said. Rory, relieved, took a deep breath.

Simon’s face was impassive. Rory wished they could read it. “Leliana?” Simon asked.

“My informants hint at disturbances on both sides – changes in routine, new faces, cryptic comments. I would prefer more solid intelligence before we make a decision.”

"Rory?" Simon asked.

Rory started. Why was Simon singling them out? He _knew_ how difficult it was for Rory to speak in front of this group.

"I... think... the templars," Rory stammered out.

Everyone at the table paused, waiting to see if Rory had more to say. Rory’s face flushed hot, and they lowered their eyes, distracting themselves by going over the discussion so far. Three voices in support of the templars, and only one for the mages. Good.

Simon glanced apologetically at Rory and sighed. "So here’s what I’m hearing. We need help from the templars or rebel mages to close the Breach. But we don't know what's happening within either group, what they would want from us in return, or even whether they can do what we need." The silence seemed to confirm his assessment. "Lovely."

"I can direct my agents to probe more deeply into both camps," Leliana offered.

"Good,” Simon nodded. “But the rest of us needn’t sit here on our asses while we wait for their reports." Simon said.

 _Oh no, he’s going to propose another expedition_. If Simon venturing out, Rory had to go with him to assist in closing any gates they encountered. Inevitably, that meant fighting, which Rory was still uncomfortable with. And Rory’s still-shaky control of their magic made them little help in a fight. Add to that rain, and cold, and a lack of quality reading material, and Rory would far rather stay in Haven and await Leliana’s reports.

"Here’s what I’m thinking,” Simon said. Lady Josephine, could you reach out to the Templars and find out if they'll meet with us? In the meantime, Rory and I can meet with Fiona in Redcliffe and find out what she wants."

Rory swallowed, hard. This was worse than just another expedition. They hoped Simon didn’t expect that to do any talking.

“Does that sound all right to everyone?” Simon asked, looking over the group.

“It seems reasonable enough to me,” Cullen said. Josephine and Leliana nodded their agreement. Cassandra, it seemed to Rory, was quite still, but made no protest. Rory quailed at the thought of raising their own objections. They could always talk about Fiona with Simon later.

“Is there anything else we need to deal with? Because I’m dying to get out of here,” Simon said. That earned him a chuckle from Cullen. Simon headed for the door, Rory trailing behind him, but the others lingered behind as usual. Rory supposed that they used these opportunities to swap thoughts about their Heralds.

Vivienne was waiting in the nave for them. She moved to meet them, robes sweeping behind her. “My dear Trevelyans!” she greeted them.

“Lady Vivienne,” Simon acknowledged, dropping into a courtly bow and bending to kiss her hand. Interacting with Vivienne always seemed to bring out the courtier in him, which Vivienne seemed to find endlessly amusing.

“First Enchanter,” Rory added.

“I trust you had a productive meeting?” Vivienne asked.

Simon shrugged. “Not really. We spent a lot of time going in circles.”

“If only someone would take the lead,” Vivienne said, with a significant look at Simon.

“I’m not in charge here,” Simon said with a snort. “Nor should I be. All I have to offer is a sword, a shield, a glowing hand no one can explain, and little enough patience for meetings.”

Vivienne raised her eyebrows. “I think you underestimate your own abilities, dear.”

“It’s kind of you to say so,” Simon said skeptically. “I’d best go train, keep at least the sword arm good. Coming, Rory?”

“I don’t think so,” Rory said. “I need to train, too. Do… do you have time to work with me, Vivienne?”

“Of course, dear,” she said.

“I’ll see you back at the cabin, then,” Simon said, and headed away. One arm in front of him, head down, he burst through the Chantry door without breaking stride. Rory judged that he had a serious need to hit something.

“Have you made progress on your exercises?” Vivienne asked.

“It’s frustrating,” Rory admitted, flushing. They hated admitting failure to Vivienne, but there was no sense in trying to lie to her. She was adept at moving through the Imperial court; she could surely see through Rory’s stammering. “The pull of the Mark… It keeps interfering with my control. I think I’ve compensated, and then the fire or frost scatters in the other direction.” They stopped to take a breath, fearing they were sounding too petulant. “I think you were right the other day. The Mark has the Fade around me in constant flux.”

Vivienne nodded. “If you learn to sense that flux, you may yet turn it to your advantage. What about the Fade-sensing exercises we went through?”

“I tried them,” Rory said, “but they feel like grasping at fog and mist. The Fade’s at the edge of my awareness, but when I reach for it, I end up holding nothing.” They winced to see Vivienne’s frown. “I’ll keep trying,” Rory muttered, defeat in their voice.

“Perhaps they’re too challenging for you at this stage,” Vivienne said.

Stung, Rory retorted, “I’m not afraid of a challenge!”

“I’m glad to hear that,” Vivienne said. “I know you’ve had the greatest affinity for fire and frost, but the Mark may open deeper manipulations of the Fade to you. If you can master them, you’ll have the makings of a proper Knight-Enchanter.”

Rory tried to picture themselves confidently striding into battle, spirit blade in hand, and almost laughed. Knight-Enchanters didn’t hide behind their twin and occasionally peek around their shield to throw fire. No, the Mark seemed far more burden that opportunity, and it _hurt_ , besides. All that kept them from voicing these thoughts was their reluctance to disappoint Vivienne further.

“Good day, Rory, Vivienne.” The voice from behind their shoulder startled Rory, but they calmed as they recognized Cassandra’s voice. They stepped aside so that Cassandra and Vivienne could face each other.

“My dear Cassandra.” Vivienne said. “How go your councils of war?”

Rory watched Cassandra closely. She was close enough that, even in the dim light of the Chantry, they could see her face more clearly than usual. She frowned, and a thin line formed between her eyebrows. For no reason they could put a finger on, Rory found it endearing.

“In a word?” Cassandra asked. “Indecisive.”

“The Inquisition seems lacking for leadership at the moment,” Vivienne noted. “You were the driving force in its founding. Have you considered formally taking charge?”

Cassandra gave a short, sharp laugh, reminding Rory of their own suppressed reaction. “That would be a serious mistake. The Divine was right - the Inquisition needs a heroic leader who can rally support to the cause.”

“Such as the savior of Val Royeux?”

Cassandra laughed again. “Hardly an accurate description. Besides, those events are ancient history now. There are people in the Inquisition who weren’t even born then. Maker, the Heralds were only babes then.”

“I’ve heard the story,” Rory blurted. “Many times.” More accurately, they had read it many times, seeking out different accounts. Any notion of actually meeting the heroine had seemed an impossible fantasy. And yet, despite that, Rory found Cassandra easier to talk to than the rest of the Inquisition. Her forthright and matter-of-fact manner could make the ludicrous nature of their situation retreat from Rory’s mind. She dealt with Rory as if they were her equal, absurd as the notion was.

“You see?” Cassandra said. “To most people, it’s just an old story.”

“That’s not what I…” Rory protested.

“Simon will grow into the role,” Cassandra went on. “He just… needs some time to become accustomed to the idea.”

“I broached the subject with him,” Vivienne said. “He was not receptive.”

“Simon,” Cassandra said, “has a limited understanding of his own strengths.”

“It might be a family quality,” Vivienne said. Rory was still processing that when she changes the subject “So what discussion has the Inquisition going in circles?”

“We need to seek aid,” Cassandra said, “to close the Breach. The rebel mages or the Templar Order seem the most likely sources.”

“Ah,” Vivienne said. “An Order in shambles, or Fiona’s foolhardy band. The Templars seem the more reliable partner, if they can be pried loose from Lucius Corin.”

Cassandra scowled at the mention of the Lord Seeker. “I believe so as well. As does Rory, I think?”

Rory nodded. “Fiona and the rebels – they’re too reckless. They don’t think consequence through. In trying to close the Breach, they might make it worse.” There, they had managed to state their mind here. Why couldn’t they do the same in council?

Vivienne gave him an approving smile. “Fiona has long since taken leave of her ability to tell good ideas from bad. What are our other Herald’s thoughts on the matter?”

“I’m not sure,” Cassandra said with a frown. “He seems undecided.” Both women turned to Rory.

Rory raised their hands helplessly. “I don’t know. We haven’t really talked about it.”

“Perhaps you should,” Vivienne said.

“I’ll try,” Rory said. Seeing disappointment in Vivienne’s eyes, they quickly added, “I mean, I can warn him about the rebels.” But what could they say there that they hadn’t said before? Why did Simon want to meet with Fiona?

Vivienne nodded once, dismissing the matter. “We should return to your training, Rory. I want to discuss your conceptualization of the Fade. Shifting through different visualizations may help you sense it better.”

“I’ll certainly be no help with that,” Cassandra said. “But Rory, may I have a private word before you begin?”

“Of course,” Rory said, at the same time as Vivienne’s, “Very well.”

Cassandra led Rory into the shadows at the side of the Chantry, and then turned to face them. Rory felt a tremor in their gut, realizing they were closer to her than before. Their eyes followed the livid scar across her cheek.

“I…” Cassandra seemed at a loss for how to proceed. Rory’s mind raced. What could she want to talk to them about? Had they done something wrong? She had seemed comfortable in their presence. Had they somehow jeopardized that? Had she noticed how her face held them mesmerized?  Rory dropped their eyes to the flagstones at the thought.

Cassandra took a deep breath and started again. “I wanted to ask you about Simon’s… intentions.”

Rory, startled, looked back up at Cassandra. “What?”

“He flirts. All the time,” Cassandra said sourly. “Usually, it seems like a game to him, but at times… he seems more earnest. I do not understand what he is about.”

“Oh!” Rory tried to think back on Simon’s interactions with Cassandra. Nothing had struck them as unusually flirtatious at the time. But then, “unusually flirtatious” for Simon was a fairly high mark. If anything, Rory’s impression was that Cassandra made Simon nervous.

“I think – it’s just Simon’s way,” they said slowly. “Of dealing with people. I mean, he doesn’t flirt with _me_ , of course… but he does with anyone else. Especially if they intimidate him.”

Cassandra gave them a skeptical look. “Are you suggesting that Simon Trevelyan finds _me_ intimidating?”

How could Simon not? But that seemed like the wrong thing to say. “Uh, you did threaten to kill him, the first time you met. I think the flirting – it helps him put the conversation on a more familiar ground?”

Cassandra nodded. “So you’re certain that he has no actual romantic interest?”

 _Could_ Rory be sure? Simon had taken a wide spectrum of lovers. And why was the thought tying Rory’s stomach in knots? No, it couldn’t be possible. They tried to keep their voice casual. “I’m sure. You don’t need to worry.” What else could they say? “Simon’s not going to sweep you off your feet like a scene from _Swords and Shields_.”

Cassandra’s eyes widened. “You’ve read _Swords and Shields_?”

Rory gulped, wishing desperately for the words back. “Uh… yes,” they stammered. “Sometimes, since I don’t… it’s not as if I have the Tower library… so I just…” Rory trailed off at the realization that Cassandra was smiling at them.

Had Rory ever seen her smile? They felt sure they would have remembered, the smile so transformed her face. It shone like a light in the dim nave. Rory caught their breath.

“I don’t think I’ve ever known a man like you, Rory.” Her face colored and she clapped a hand to her mouth. “A person. I’m sorry!”

“It’s all right,” Rory said quickly. “But how… how does everyone here seem to know?” They couldn’t remember explaining it to anyone in the Inquisition.

“Simon told us. Though… his explanation was somewhat confusing.”

“What did he say?”

“I believe that he said, ‘Rory thinks they’re a book,’” Cassandra said, furrowing her brow.

Rory brought up a hand and leaned their forehead into it. “Oh, Simon,” they moaned.

“I’m guessing there’s a story behind this?” Cassandra prompted.

“It was how I explained it to him, the first time. He said he didn’t know how to interact with someone who wasn’t a man or a woman. I handed him a book and asked him, ‘Is this book male or female?’ He said the question didn’t make sense, and I told him he could still read it without knowing… He pointed out that he wasn’t much for reading. It wasn’t the greatest example, now that I think about it.”

But Simon, wanting to explain to the Inquisition, had reached back for a half-remembered version of Rory’s explanation. Rory felt oddly warmed that Simon had done that for them, even as they made a note to try to walk Simon through a more coherent explanation.

“He cares about you a great deal,” Cassandra said.

Rory nodded. “I’d be lost without him.”

Cassandra glanced away. “I should get back to the training grounds. Simon will likely be wanting to spar, after that meeting.” She smiled at Rory again. Rory’s heart hammered at the sight. “Thank you for answering my foolish question. I hope we can talk again soon.”

“Yes,” Rory managed to gulp.

She turned to go. Rory, feeling a bit giddy, watched her walk away, her outline slowly blurring as she left the range of their spectacles. It didn’t occur to Rory to wonder how she had even heard of _Swords and Shields_ until after she had disappeared into the daylight.


	12. L is for Loyalties and Lone

**Simon: L is for Loyalties**

“You’ve come a terribly long way,” Simon said, settling down beside the Tevinter newcomer as the Inquisition party set up camp. They were a day out from Redcliffe now. On hearing Dorian explain that he couldn’t stay in Redcliffe and risk Magister Alexius’ attention, Simon had proposed that Dorian accompany them as they made their way back to Haven. It seemed ridiculous for the man to make his way alone when he’d offered his help. The others hadn’t necessarily agreed -- Rory had looked decidedly concerned -- but Simon had pointed out that they’d have more opportunity to discuss the situation as they went, and had prevailed.

“Not so very far,” Dorian said breezily. “Only across the Waking Sea and most of Fereldan. You people have really let the Imperial Highway descend into a quite shoddy state, you do realize that?” He quirked an eyebrow, attempting to look disapproving, but the corners of his lips twitched all the same, so Simon didn’t believe it for a moment.

“The better to keep Imperial armies away,” Simon said with a smile and a shrug. “I’m a Marcher myself, besides.”

“I suppose you can’t be held responsible for the barbarism of the south, then,” Dorian said cheerfully. “Getting cold already, isn’t it? Half of Minrathous would take to their beds complaining of the chill.”

“It’s good to see you’re made of tougher stuff,” Simon replied.

“Oh, you should see what kind of stuff I’m made of.”

Simon grinned at that, and caught Dorian smiling back, eyes crinkling. Their gaze held for a moment until Dorian turned his attention toward the center of camp, where two of the scouts were setting up the pot of stew over the fire. Setting camp was a smooth routine by now. “Now,” Dorian drawled, “your Inquisition does intend to do something about Alexius and his little enclave, doesn’t it?”

Simon sat back. He’d expected this was coming, and he didn’t blame Dorian for posing the question. He’d come all this way south for a reason, after all. “It’s not my Inquisition. And I’m afraid I can’t make you any promises.”

“Oh? I thought you were in charge of this little enterprise.” Dorian waved a hand, indicating the camp spread out around them.

Simon snorted, even though he knew that people spoke as if the Heralds led the Inquisition. It was no surprise that Dorian would think so. “Hardly. Mind you, I do think we need to address this situation. Redcliffe is too important, if nothing else, and if what you’ve said is true…”

“Oh, it’s true, I assure you of that,” Dorian said, his expression going serious. “Alexius is…” He frowned, eyes distant. The little crease that appeared between his eyebrows was almost as charming as his smile. Simon had a brief urge to wipe it away. He looked around at the camp instead, frowning as he noted the occasional wary glances from Inquisition scouts and guards. “Alexius is not a bad man,” Dorian said finally. “Or wasn’t, at least. He’s certainly been good to me. But in recent years he’s… changed. These Venatori are the absolute worst of Tevinter mages -- craven, fanatical, power-hungry, blinded by pride and folly. You don’t want them for neighbors.”

Simon acknowledged that with a nod, though he couldn’t help but chuckle. “To be honest, I’m not sure most southerners would like any Tevinter mages for neighbors.”

“Well, there is that,” Dorian said with a dismissive flick of his fingers. “There’s also the time magic. Alexius and I had developed the theory earlier, but now he seems to be making practical experiments, and those can’t be either stable or safe. If more time rifts appear…”

Simon grimaced. The way time had warped around those rifts made his skin crawl. He especially hated to think what they might to do the people around Redcliffe, who had suffered enough. But he said, “You’d best discuss that with Rory, or Lady Vivienne. I’m no mage. To tell the truth, we came to Redcliffe to meet with the mages.”

Dorian nodded. “Of course. It stands to reason you’d need a great deal of magical power to deal with that.” He tilted his head toward the Breach, which was becoming the brightest thing in the sky as the sun set.

“Exactly,” Simon said. “Only there’s some debate about how to proceed.”

“I see. That’s unfortunate.” Dorian looked sober, his mouth curved down. “If you don’t mind my asking, though, who would you say is in charge of the Inquisition?”

Simon shifted uncomfortably. It had become all too clear in recent weeks that the answer was “no one,” and the rounds of bickering and endless questions had run almost to the end of his patience. He took a breath and did his best to give a useful answer. “Well, Seeker Pentaghast was the late Divine’s Right Hand, of course, and it’s she who proclaimed the Inquisition in the first place, but it’s really fallen to a sort of council. There’s the Seeker as well as the Divine’s Left Hand, and Ambassador Montilyet to handle diplomatic matters, and Cullen, he’s a former templar, to lead the Inquisition’s troops.” An evasive answer, but it might serve Dorian to know the ground they were entering.

“I see.” Dorian’s eyebrows drew together, but he looked more speculative than disapproving. “It’s curious, though, all one hears about are the Heralds.”

“We sit in meetings, too.” Far, far too many meetings for Simon’s patience. “And the mark is showy, I’ll grant you that.” Simon stretched out his left hand, glancing at the faint glimmer under the skin. It only ached a little at present, at least. “I don’t know if Andraste’s will had much to do with it, but since Rory and I have the dubious fortune of carrying the mark, we do what we can to help. It doesn’t mean we’re in charge of anything, or should be.”

“It seems a very peculiar kind of magic.” Dorian bent his head to get a better look.

“No one seems to really understand it,” Simon said. “Maker knows Rory’s tried, and First Enchanter Vivienne’s taken a good look. Our local expert on the Fade is an elf called Solas, and he barely understands it, either.”

“Hmm.” Dorian glanced up at him. “May I?”

Simon shrugged and offered his hand. “If you like.”

Dorian cupped Simon’s hand in both his own, bending over it with eyes narrowed in concentration. His lips moved, but no sound came out, Simon observed with some amusement. Dorian’s hands were warm, very warm, and smooth. This close, Simon caught a whiff of a pleasantly musky perfume, and found himself staring down at Dorian’s glossy black hair, arranged in perfect waves, while Dorian lightly ran a thumb over Simon’s palm, and then probed a couple of points, applying delicate pressure with his fingertips. Simon’s fingers twitched.

“Sorry,” Dorian said. “Does this hurt?”

“No,” Simon said, and felt compelled to add, “It does ache, sometimes. More when there’s a rift in the vicinity, or demons. But what you’re doing doesn’t hurt.”

“Good,” said Dorian, looking up. For a moment, they were face to face, and quite close together; Simon couldn’t help noticing how clear Dorian’s eyes were, and how nicely the dark lashes and painted lines framed them. He almost held his breath, and fancied Dorian might be doing the same.

Then Dorian let go and leaned back in his place, dusting his hands off vigorously. “Now, that is peculiar,” he said brightly. “I’ve never seen anything like it. Certainly magic, but magic that seems to have embedded itself.”

“And wasn’t that fun,” Simon said dryly, settling back himself. If Dorian wanted to restore space between them, he’d let him do it.

“And your twin has the same? Fascinating.” Dorian’s eyes were bright now with curiosity; Simon could nearly see the wheels spinning as he thought over the matter. He smiled to himself; the man hardly had a mood that didn’t flicker across his face.

“It’s as if they’re bonded together somehow,” Simon said, glancing down at his own palm.

“And to the Fade,” Dorian said.

“Apparently.” Deciding not to mention some of the more embarrassing consequences of that, Simon smiled and spread his hands. “It’s all a bit beyond me.”

“And yet here you are, right in the middle of it.”

“So I am,” Simon said with a sigh. “If Andraste had anything to do with this, she has a far better sense of humor than the Chantry ever told me.”

Dorian laughed, a good, warm laugh, fine lines gathering at the corners of his eyes. Simon smiled back, pleased that he’d gotten a laugh. The satisfaction lasted until Dorian tilted his head slightly, his gaze traveling past Simon’s shoulder. “I do believe you’re wanted.”

Glancing over his shoulder, Simon saw Rory approaching, eyes wide and forehead creased with nervousness. Simon bit back a sigh. Uncharitably, he thought that always seemed to be the way of it: Rory hesitated to approach, or to speak up in council, but always pulled Simon aside afterward to tell him what he should have done or said differently. The reflection made Simon feel guilty at once. Rory had always been shyer than Simon, and life in the Circle hadn’t exactly taught Rory any differently. It wasn’t their fault.

“Excuse me,” he said to Dorian, parting with a polite farewell, and went to see what Rory wanted.

“What is it?” Simon asked, brusquely enough that Rory blinked at him in confusion. Simon sighed and tried to soften his tone. “Did you need something?”

“What were you talking about with the magister?”

“He said he’s not a magister,” Simon pointed out.

“He’s still a Tevinter mage,” Rory insisted.

“And he’s come all the way from Tevinter to help,” Simon said. “He’s an ally, or at least a potential one, not an enemy.”

Rory frowned and adjusted their spectacles. “But mages from Tevinter are dangerous, they don’t obey the Chantry or their templars, or... what did he want from you?”

Simon shrugged. “The obvious. He wants us to help him deal with the situation in Redcliffe.I told him I’m not in a position to promise anything, I told him a little about the Inquisition’s leaders, that’s all, and he had a look at the mark.”

Rory’s eyes widened. “You showed him the mark? Why did you do that?”

“It’s not exactly hidden,” Simon snapped. “No one understands what it is or where it came from, what harm could a look do?”

“You can’t know that!” Rory exclaimed. “What if he altered it somehow, or…”

Simon shook his head. “Nobody can make heads or tails of it. Why do you think Dorian could?”

“You don’t have any idea what he’s capable of! Tevinter mages use blood magic, and they don’t follow the Chantry’s laws...”

Simon sighed as Rory kept talking. He meant to listen, he truly did, but his mind wandered in spite of his best efforts, and eventually, when Rory paused for breath, Simon simply said, “Well, it’s done now. I won’t let him take a look again, if it bothers you. Is the stew ready?” and stalked off toward the campfire.

He felt guilty about that, too. It was rude, and Simon hated being so short with Rory. Everything seemed to try Simon’s temper lately. No one else seemed willing to make a decision, but everyone was full of suggestions every time Simon proposed one. It made Simon wonder why he’d bothered saying anything in the first place.

And everywhere people kept watching him and Rory, hoping the Heralds of Andraste would save them from the Breach somehow. Or glaring at them, convinced they were heretics or charlatans. The weight of all that expectation was growing heavy, and Simon was getting tired of it. But none of that was Rory’s fault. Simon ought to be more patient.

He apologized to Rory for being short-tempered that night, as they settled into their bedrolls in the tent they shared. “I don’t know what’s come over me,” Simon said, “I suppose I’d just like things to be settled.”

“It’s all right,” Rory said after a moment, and they bade each other good-night. Rory was probably on edge, too, Simon thought as he drifted to sleep. Perhaps they’d both be calmer in the morning.

But morning came, and Rory kept avoiding Dorian, or at best looking at him warily from afar. Cassandra and Vivienne and the rest were civil enough, but distant. Having asked Dorian to join them, Simon was not about to be a bad host. Therefore, he made a point of being friendly and checking in on Dorian as they traveled. On the whole, he found Dorian remarkably pleasant company.

Remarkably attractive company, too, and clever and amusing besides. It didn’t matter, but there was hardly any harm in Simon _looking_ , was there?

“You know,” the Iron Bull said quietly, drawing up behind Simon as they broke camp a few days later, “you have to be careful about trusting Vints.”

Bull, too, eh? “Does that include Krem?” Simon asked without turning around.

“Krem’s a special case. And not an Altus.”

Simon blew out a breath. How many times would he be having this conversation? “The man’s an ally, or at least a potential ally. He’s provided useful information and is offering practical assistance. If you’re worried about Vints, we surely don’t want this Alexius setting up shop in Redcliffe. It’s practically on the Inquisition’s doorstep.”

“Oh, I’m not arguing that point. I’m just saying, be careful how close you get to the Vint.”

“I’m being civil, that’s all. Same as for any potential ally.”

“Sure you are,” Bull agreed easily. With just a hint of sarcasm, perhaps. Simon glanced up and over his shoulder warily.

The Bull smiled down, a glint in his eye, and settled a big hand on Simon’s shoulder. “Just be cautious, boss. Wouldn’t recommend getting any closer. You can’t tell what a Vint is up to.”

Damn. Was Simon’s interest in Dorian that obvious? He thought he’d masked it tolerably well, not laying on more charm than he would for any other new acquaintance, but perhaps he’d revealed more than he thought. “Says the Qunari spy,” he shot back, to cover himself.

Bull laughed, showing a glint of teeth. “Yeah, but I was honest about being a spy.” He moved off, leaving Simon to think that one over.

Simon let out a breath. It wasn’t bad advice, really. He knew that Vivienne and Bull and Sera and the others had goals of their own. Simon could even guess at what they were. If Dorian were concealing some secret agenda, Simon hadn’t enough knowledge of him, or of Tevinter, to guess what it might be.

Remembering the way Dorian laughed, though, and the openness of his face, Simon had a hard time believing he’d conceal that kind of secret.

 

 

**Rory: L is for Lone**

Once they were alone in their cabin, Simon turned to Rory. “Well, what was it you wanted to say, then?”

“It would be a huge mistake to go back to Redcliffe,” Rory said.

Simon blew out a short breath, clearly frustrated. “Didn’t we spend enough time going in circles at the War Table? Why couldn’t you have brought this up then?”

After the War Table meeting, Rory had asked Simon if they could talk privately before Simon went off to train. Now Rory was wondering if that had been a mistake. Simon was clearly in a foul mood. But Rory had been rehearsing their arguments all through the meeting and the walk to the cabin. They feared losing track of them if they didn’t put them forth now.

“Going to Redcliffe puts us at too much risk,” Rory said, trying to keep their voice steady. “Leaving aside the impregnable nature of Redcliffe Castle…”

Simon waved a hand in Rory’s direction. “Leliana’s plan to deal with that is solid. Even Cullen and Cassandra agreed that we can pull it off.”

“But none of them are mages,” Rory protested. Their voice squeaked and cracked on the last word. “They don’t understand how unpredictable this time magic could be. We – we could be lost, Simon, stumbling through the same hour again and again. Or we could disappear entirely.”

“If it’s so dangerous, all the more reason to deal with it now. And Dorian assures me that he can deal with Alexius’s magic,” Simon said in a level voice.

Rory muttered, “I’m sure he does.”

“What was that?” Simon snapped.

“You – you shouldn’t be so quick to take his word, Simon! He’s _Tevinter_ , a Tevinter mage, and they practice – do blood magic, human sacrifice …” They trailed off as Simon looked unmoved.

“He hates blood magic, Rory. He’d never use it.”

Rory suspected that most blood mages would say the same. Why was Simon so willing to accept Dorian’s word? “So he says.”

Simon took a deep breath. “I trust him, Rory. And you’ve always trusted my judgment about who we can rely on.”

This wasn’t going at all as Rory had hoped. Arguing about Dorian’s trustworthiness was just going to make Simon madder. They moved to the next item on their mental checklist. “And the rebel mages, Simon. You can’t tell me that you trust _them_. You don’t even know them!”

“And you do?” Simon asked archly. “Had you even met Fiona, before Redcliffe?”

Rory sputtered as they tried to arrange their thoughts. “I know more than enough about her. She – she started the _war_! And then she pledged her services to a magister. Vivienne says…”

“Oh, _Vivienne_ says,” Simon said sarcastically. “I’m sure she’s the go-to person for unbiased information on the mage rebellion.”

Rory flushed. “You – you shouldn’t – shouldn’t talk about her like that. She… deserves respect.”

“If she wants my respect, she can come make her own arguments instead of sending you to do it,” Simon shot back.

“That’s not – I’m not – that’s not fair,” Rory stammered.

“It isn’t? She hasn’t been coaching you?”

Rory stared at their twin, their jaw hanging open. They had come to value the opportunity to talk their views through with Vivienne, certainly. But that didn’t mean that they were just her mouthpiece, did it? They struggled to put together the words that would convince Simon.

“Anyway,” Simon said, “Fiona and the rebel mages were Vivienne’s enemies. Of course she doesn’t like or trust them. But they’re in a bind, they need our help, and they’ll help us in exchange for it. We have no such guarantee from the templars.”

“But the templars – they swore an oath, Simon, to – to protect the world from magic. A problem like the Breach – it’s what they’re for.”

“Didn’t they also swear an oath to the Chantry?” Simon asked. “Remind me how that worked out.”

“They’ve been misled,” Rory said miserably. “The Lord Seeker…”

“They seemed to follow him loyally enough in Val Royeux. Look, Rory, do you really think there’s a chance we can talk the Lord Seeker around?”

Rory remembered the certainty in the Lord Seeker’s voice and the hard, cold look in his eyes. “No,” they admitted. “But the rest of the templars…”

“So we have a choice,” Simon said slowly and clearly, as if talking to a child. “We can seek aid from the group whose leader has every reason to help us, or we can try to pry away members of a group whose leader is dead set against us. Which of these strike you as more promising?”

“But the templars need us!” It came out as a wail.

“And the mages don’t? We can’t let them be enslaved by that smug magister?”

“They made that choice!” Rory protested.

“And the templars had no choice but to follow Lucius, is that it?”

“Yes! They had to follow his orders…”

Simon cut Rory off. “Won’t that keep them from listening to us?”

Rory felt outflanked. Simon’s responses were coming so fast. Rory had never known Simon to press so hard against Rory’s inability to argue under pressure. They ground their teeth in frustration, trying again to formulate their thoughts. “The templars are the only group we can trust to close the Breach without making it worse,” they insisted.

Simon let out a long breath. “I can’t understand why you put so much trust in the templars. They locked mages up! I spent years _protecting_ you from them. They tried to kill you, to kill both of us!” He paused and resumed more quietly. “I know how much you trusted Emris. But Rory, he left the Order because he couldn’t stand what it had become. The templars still in the Order – they’re not like him!”

“Don’t you dare!” Rory yelled. “Don’t you dare use Emris against me like that!”

Simon’s face was getting redder and redder. “If he were here, he’d be telling you the same thing I am!”

“You – you don’t get to say that! You didn’t know him! You don’t know what he meant to me! Simon, you can’t stand there telling me why I think things!”

“What else am I supposed to do when you don’t give me a reason that makes sense? How can you even know the templars can close the Breach? Dorian says mages don’t even understand how the templar powers work!”

“Oh, Dorian says!” Rory retorted. All their frustration and anger and fear seemed to come to a boil inside them. They reined the fire back in, but put it into their words. “Why don’t we just put Dorian in charge of the Inquisition, then? Or better yet, we can put your cock in charge. It’s certainly leading you around!”

Simon’s eyebrows shot up and his mouth opened, then closed. “What did you say?” he snarled.

What other reason could Simon have for being so insistent? For ignoring all of Rory’s concerns? “Do you think I can’t see how you look at him? It’s clear as day that you want him, and it’s skewed your judgment!”

Simon’s face tightened and he clenched his fists, his whole body seeming to vibrate. The twins stared at each other for a few moments, and then Simon said coldly, “I hadn’t realized that you thought so little of me. All right, then, I’m going to Redcliffe with Dorian and whoever else wants to come. You can do whatever the fuck you want.” He turned and stormed out the door to the cabin without a backward glance.

Rory was horrified to discover that a crowd had gathered in front of the cabin, their curious faces peering in the open door. Rory quickly moved to shut the door, then sank down to sit on their bed. They drove their fist against the mattress a few times in frustration. How could Simon be so obstinate? Why hadn’t he listened?

And was there any way back from what they’d said to each other? They had argued before, but never fought like this, never lashed out with intent to hurt. Even if Rory could forgive Simon, could Simon forgive them? Their anger drained away quickly, and Rory took off their spectacles, buried their hand in their hands and wept.

A heavy knock sounded against the door. Rory ignored it; they were in no state to deal with anyone just then. The knock came again, and Rory sighed, rubbed their hands over their eyes, and put their spectacles back on. “What is it?”

“It’s Cassandra,” came the answer from outside. “Can I come in?”

Rory’s throat closed up. They couldn’t decide whether they wanted to say yes or no. Cassandra’s presence might be a comfort, but they didn’t want her to see them like this. They were still debating, leaning toward no, when the door opened and Cassandra stepped into the room. Rory gazed at her blearily.

“I heard the commotion,” she said. “What happened?”

“Simon and I argued,” Rory said miserably. “About whether to seek aid from the rebel mages or the templars. We… didn’t agree. He wasn’t listening to me, and I said – things I shouldn’t have. Now he’s determined to go to Redcliffe, with or without me.”

“Oh, Rory,” Cassandra said, “are you all right?” Her face fell. “That was a ridiculous thing to ask, I’m sorry. I’m intruding on you. I should go.” She began to turn toward the doorway.

“No. Stay,” Rory forced out.

Cassandra walked over and sat down on Simon’s bed, facing Rory. “Are you certain that going to the rebel mages is the wrong move?”

“We can’t trust them!” Rory blurted. “Cassandra, be honest – do you trust Fiona and the rebels?”

Cassandra paused. “No,” she admitted.

Rory rose to their feet and began to pace. “But Simon thinks we can, and I can’t change his mind! I don’t know how to convince him that the templars are a better choice…”

“Didn’t templars try to kill the two of you?” Cassandra asked.

Rory sighed. “You sound like Simon now. Wait, how did you know about that?”

“He mentioned it, during a sparring session. I’m just… surprised that you speak so strongly for them, after that.”

Rory thought for a moment. What lay behind their conviction? “Templars saved my life, once. There was an abomination…” Blayne’s melted face flashed before their eyes, and they shuddered. “We need them now, with all these Fade rifts and demons. And…” They paused. Cassandra waited patiently. “They need us. The path the Lord Seeker has them on… it’s the wrong one. I owe them my life. I have to try to help.”

“Help how?” Cassandra asked, furrowing her brow.

“I think the Order is broken at the top,” Rory said slowly. “People like the Lord Seeker, like my old Knight-Commander – they’ve twisted its purpose away from protecting people. Templars are trained to follow orders. If the leaders go bad, they lead the rest astray. But we saw a templar stand up to the Lord Seeker in Val Royeux. There must be more like them. Those are the people we need.”

Cassandra blinked at him a few times. “Are you suggesting that we kill the Lord Seeker?”

“No!” Rory said, shocked. “We need to expose him. Show the true templars that we are an honorable alternative.” They bit their lower lip. “Simon would be good at that, convincing them.”

Cassandra nodded. “Have you ever told him what you just told me?”

“Yes! Well, mostly. It’s been hard to get through it.” And now Simon was never going to listen. They should have taken more time, talked things over with Vivienne and Cassandra before trying to persuade him. Now that was a lost cause. Tears swam in Rory’s eyes and they frantically blinked them away.

“He isn’t going to listen. And I don’t know what to do if Simon won’t help them. I can’t go alone, I’d never even make it to Therinfal…” The tears overwhelmed them, and they ducked their head, trying to hide them from Cassandra.

Rory heard Cassandra rise to her feet and assumed she was leaving, but instead she touched Rory gently on the shoulder. “Rory… if you go to Therinfal Redoubt, you won’t go alone.”


	13. M is for Meetings and Masks

**Simon: M is for Meetings**

They’d gotten a day’s march away from Haven before Simon’s driving fury curdled into regret.

He shouldn’t have left like that. He should have gone back and apologized. He definitely shouldn’t have left without saying goodbye.

That sore anger had pushed him far enough, though. First to Leliana, where he’d asked how soon her people could be ready. To his surprise, she’d set preparations in motion with no more than an “Are you certain?” as if she were an arrow ready to fly. Then to Dorian’s cabin; Simon winced, now, at how short he’d been with the man. With Rory’s parting shot still ringing in his ears, he’d said only, “Can you be ready to leave for Redcliffe tomorrow?”

Dorian had replied, “Well, of course, I’ll have to pack...” and then looked around at the mostly empty room and said, “never mind, I’m ready any time.”

“Good,” Simon had said brusquely, already turning to go. A day before, he might have lingered for conversation, but now...

“Are you all right?” Dorian had asked.

Simon had looked back to find puzzled concern creeping across Dorian’s face. It gave him an unexpected pang, especially to think that someone who hadn’t known him long would ask after him. But if he told the truth, he might end up telling the whole bitter truth, and Simon wasn’t willing to face up to that yet.

So he’d told Dorian he was fine, nothing more, and left without another word.

Void. He probably owed Dorian an apology, too, for replying so curtly to a well-meaning question. It wasn’t Dorian’s fault things had shaken out this way. Simon sighed and determined to add that apology to his list.

After talking to Leliana and Dorian, a thousand more small decisions had sprouted like mushrooms, a dozen people demanding his attention in turn, while Simon tried to track down his party. The Iron Bull had agreed to join him almost before Simon finished talking, much to his surprise, and Sera hadn’t even waited for him to ask.

“I’m coming with you,” she’d announced. At Simon’s startled look, she added, “Magic is _eurghhh_ , but I’m not going off with some stuck-up noble arseholes, yeah? I’m with you.”

That had been the first that Simon heard of the other expedition, the one Rory was organizing with Cassandra and Josephine.

“Yeah,” Varric had said when he joined them. “Madame de Fer’s going too, and Ruffles is organizing a party of noble supporters. It’s going to be quite the sight.”

“Oh,” Simon had said. A little surprised, and kicking himself for it. He’d told Rory to do whatever they wanted, after all. Of course they’d go after the templars, and of course Vivienne would be right alongside them. “What about you?” he’d asked Varric warily.

Varric had shrugged, smiling a little. “Where do you want me?”

“You’re asking _me_?”

“Why not?” Varric had asked, still smiling.

Simon really wasn’t sure why Varric was asking his opinion. He hesitated, thinking it over. Varric knew people, and wasn’t swayed by ideals about the Templar Order. Simon wasn’t sure that was true of the rest of the group. “Could you go with them? Keep an eye on Rory for me?”

“Sure thing,” Varric had said, seeming to understand, and gone to join the other party.

It was good, really. Rory got what they wanted, and the Inquisition could try for both its targets. Surely one or the other of them would secure the help they needed to close the Breach. With Cassandra and Vivienne along, Rory didn’t really need Simon, did they?

Simon honestly wasn’t sure how he felt about that.

Simon could tell himself that the preparations had kept them both busy, as all of Haven scurried about frantically to outfit and equip not one, but two expeditions, both of them leaving as soon as possible. It was perfectly understandable that neither he nor Rory had sought out the other to explain, or apologize, or say farewell.

But Simon knew perfectly well that for himself, it was sheer cowardice. He’d even caught his few hours of sleep in the tavern instead of in the cabin he normally shared with Rory. He couldn’t bring himself to face Rory again, not with those last words ringing between them.

Was that really what Rory thought of him?

That thought hurt, twisted somewhere deep inside, as if it threw everything about their relationship into a new and ugly shape.

Simon knew perfectly well that Rory was smarter than he was, and was certainly a gentler and kinder soul. Simon was thoroughly ordinary, in fact, not even the strongest or fastest or most skilled swordsman. But he was usually a halfway decent judge of people. If Simon trusted or didn’t trust someone, Rory usually trusted _him_. Why was now so different?

Rory was never cruel like that; Rory never liked to think the worst of anyone. Did they really think Simon was an idiot being led around by his cock? How long had Rory been holding those words back?

Now, at the end of the day’s march, there was no bustle of preparation to keep Simon busy any longer, and the anger had faded away, so only the hurt feelings remained. Even that was mostly buried under the day’s fatigue, leaving him feeling dull and tired.

They were too far committed to turn back now, though. Feelings aside, Simon was right. Talking to the rebel mages was a clear path to closing the Breach. There were enough of them to muster a lot of magical power, and the mages needed to improve their reputation in the eyes of the world. Simon was sure he could persuade them to help, if they could just get Alexius out of the way. And Alexius’s occupation of Redcliffe was a problem in and of itself, one that they could solve right away. Two birds with one stone, then.

Of course, if the whole thing failed, that would be entirely Simon’s fault, since all these people had put the plan into action on his say-so. He still wasn’t quite sure _why_ they’d followed him so willingly, but they’d done it, and that made them his responsibility. 

Simon took a deep breath, staring down into the valley, and tried to shut the regret and guilt away. He’d talk to Rory when they returned. He’d bring the mages back with him, and he’d have pried Alexius out of that Maker-forsaken castle. He’d apologize for being a short-tempered ass. Rory would... Simon didn’t think Rory would hold a grudge. Probably.

But he had to put all that out of his mind now, and focus on making the plan work.

“Hope you’re not having second thoughts, Boss.”

Simon started; he hadn’t heard the Iron Bull approaching. The qunari was shockingly quiet and light on his feet for such a large person. Simon glanced around, but there was no one else within earshot. To Bull, he could admit it: “A little. But I still think it’s the right decision.”

Bull shrugged. “Not here to argue with you. Nobody wants a nest of Vints down here.”

Simon nodded. That was exactly the point he’d been making over and over. “Bull, can I ask—”

“Ask whatever you want, Boss.”

Simon shook his head at the title. “Why are you here?”

“To guard your back, like usual,” Bull said. Simon snorted at that -- as if Simon didn’t guard Bull’s own blind side, as often as not. Bull grinned back at him. “And keep an eye on all the Vints for you.”

Simon gritted his teeth. “Don’t even start.”

“Ah,” said Bull.

Simon winced, realizing he’d probably handed Bull the key to his argument with Rory. No one had asked him for the details, and Simon hadn’t offered.

“Someone had to choose, you weren’t wrong about that,” Bull said.

“Thanks,” Simon said heavily. “Still not sure why it had to be me, though.”

Bull chuckled. “Who else?”

That question stayed with Simon long into the night, as he lay awake running through what needed to happen when they reached Redcliffe. Even when he finally fell asleep, he only dreamed of Rory waving to him wildly from far away.

**Rory: M is for Masks**

Rory looked up at the imposing bulk of Therinfal Redoubt and wondered, for the hundredth time since leaving Haven, what in the Maker’s name he was doing

“It screams “I hate fun and kick puppies,’ doesn’t it?” Varric said sourly.

Rory gave him a startled glance at the reminder that Varric was in their company. They had not expected him to accompany them to Therinfal. He was much closer to Simon than to Rory, and he generally gave Cassandra a wide berth. But, during the hurried preparations for the two expeditions, he had offered to come along, opining that Rory would need “someone sensible.”

“Well, _Herald_ , it appears that someone is ready to speak with you,” Lord Abernache added, with a gesture at the open gates. “ _Do_ move on. Let us all get out of this _Fereldan_ rain.”

Rory wasn’t sure what might distinguish Fereldan rain from Orlesian, and the whole party was so soaked that further rain seemed unlikely to do more harm. Overall, they found the weather far less aggravating than Abernache’s company. Josephine had warned Rory that the lord could be difficult, but they hadn’t been prepared for his constant stream of sly insinuations and maneuvering for benefit, nor for the mask constantly hiding his facial expressions. As Abernache was the highest-ranking of the four Orlesian nobles that Josephine had scraped up to accompany Rory, though, they were stuck with him.

Rory absently scanned their companions, realizing with a jolt that they were looking for _Simon_. Before this trip, they had never been on the road without Simon. They were constantly taken aback by his absence. It felt like missing a limb, far worse than being without spectacles or staff. It only sharpened the hurt that they had said no real farewell in Haven.Both twins had avoided each other, afraid, Rory thought, that ill-chosen words could so easily worsen the rift between them.

Even in the Fade, they had made no connection. Simon had appeared in Rory’s dreams three times during the journey east, but always too far away for a conversation. Was this because of the physical distance between them in the waking world, or was it a product of the emotional gap separating them? Rory had no idea. Solas might have provided some insight, but he was back in Haven, researching ways to close the Breach.

“Are we waiting for something in _particular_?” Abernache asked.

Rory looked around again, seeing all eyes on them. Another bizarre experience of the trip had been Vivienne and Cassandra routinely deferring decision-making to Rory. Rory kept wanting to scream, _I don’t know. Why are you trusting me with this?_ Was this the pressure Simon had been feeling? No wonder he had been so irritable.

“Uh, sorry,” Rory said. “I guess we should go in.”

They walked forward into a gated area. A tall, dark-skinned Templar with a troubled expression awaited before a lowered gate. Rory recognized him as the Templar who had protested when the Lord Seeker led the Templars away from Val Royeux. If he had been delegated to meet them, that seemed a good sign, evidence that many Templars shared his views.

“May I present Knight-Templar Ser Delrin Barris, second son of Bann Jevran Barris of Ferelden,” the crier proclaimed. He went on to introduce Lord Abernache, but Ser Barris ignored the lord, stepping past him to face Rory.

“I’m the one who sent word to Cullen,” Ser Barris said urgently. “He says that you work to seal the Breach in the sky. I… did not expect you to arrive in such august company.”

Rory was suddenly very conscious of the Templar’s closeness and of all the eyes on them. They struggled to gather their thoughts. “Ah…”

Abernache stepped into the gap. “Barris, eh? Moderate holdings. And the second son? Hah!”

Ser Barris paid him no heed. “Your arrival has seized the Lord Seeker’s attention, beyond all sense. The sky burns with magic, but he has ignored all calls to action – until your arrival.”

Rory frowned, trying to concentrate. What insights could Ser Barris offer into the Lord Seeker’s motivations? “Is it…”

Again, Lord Abernache interrupted. “Don’t keep your betters waiting, Barris. There’s important work for those born to it.”

“How has the Lord Seeker come to lead the Templars?” Cassandra broke in.

Barris gave her a grateful nod. “He claims a holy mandate. He promised to restore the Order’s honor. Then he marched us here to wait.” He sighed. “Templars should know their duty, even when held from it.”

“I…” Rory began, intending to indicate agreement, but Abernache cut them off once again.

“Your _duty_ is to convey our delegation to the Lord Seeker and out of this miserable rain,” Abernache said sneeringly.

Rory felt the fire within them surge in frustration. They gritted their teeth and forced it back down.

Barris sighed and waved at the Templars on the other side of the gate to open it. He looked between Abernache and Rory, frustration plain on his face. “I had hopes… that you can convince the Lord Seeker. Win him over, and every able-bodied Templar will help the Inquisition seal the Breach.”

Did they really have a chance of convincing Lucius Corin? “Would he…”

Abernache cut Rory off once more. “You needn’t concern yourself with these matters, Barris. Is the climate here always so miserable?”

His complaints continued without a break while Ser Barris led them into the courtyard, while Rory performed the flag-raising ceremony requested (placing Andraste and the Chantry at the top, of course), and while they were ushered into the castle, where the Lord Seeker was still not in evidence. Abernache fell silent stopped only when the door across the room opened and three armored figures entered. Rory frowned. The man at the center was too tall and of the wrong build to be Lucius Corin.

“Knight-Captain?” Ser Barris asked, sounding surprised.

“You were expecting the Lord Seeker?” the man said with a laugh. “He sent me to die for you in his place.”

Rory exchanged alarmed glances with Cassandra and Ser Barris. The Knight-Captain’s gait was stiff and awkward, and he spoke as if his mind were leagues away. Rory would have thought him possessed but could not sense a demon within him. “What’s wrong…” they began.

But Abernache had stepped forward to blather at the Knight-Captain, and Rory’s words went unheard. Rory fell silent as they noticed the Templars flanking them, eyes alert and weapons ready. Something was terribly wrong. Rory gripped their staff firmly and let the fire boil back up inside them, holding it just in check. Cassandra stepped up to stand beside them, while Varric casually dropped a hand to his crossbow and Viviennedrew the power of the Fade around herself in preparation.

The sounds of shouting and clashing weapons came from outside the hall. Ser Barris stepped forward, urgently shouldering past Abernache to address the Knight-Captain. “I demand to know what’s going on!”

“You were all supposed to be changed!” the Knight-Captain said. He thrust an accusing finger at Rory. “You brought too many doubters to the surface. Now we must purge the questioning knights!”

The watching Templars loosed a fusillade of arrows. Abernache collapsed, gurgling around the arrow in his throat, mask knocked askew. Rory watched in horror as another arrow, aimed straight for their eye, rebounded off the magical barriers that Vivienne had quickly raised. Cassandra stepped in front of Rory, raising her shield protectively.

“For the Herald!” she cried, and Ser Barris echoed the yell. Rory scanned the scene. Of their party, only they, Cassandra, Vivienne, and Varric remained standing. They murmured a quick apology to the nobles they had never meant to lead to their deaths, then aimed their staff past Cassandra’s shield and sent flames spurting at the templar foes, who yelled, drew weapons, and charged.

Rory fully expected to die in that moment. All it would take was for one of the templars to strip away their and Vivienne’s magic. Then Cassandra, Varric, and Barris would be on their own against a massive weight of numbers. But no templar raised their sword in ritual. They rushed Rory’s group without subtlety, strategy, or sense.  Cassandra and Ser Barris somehow managed to hold them at bay until Rory’s flame, Vivienne’s frost, and Varric’s crossbow found enough targets that the onslaught slackened. Still their foes did not break and run, but kept hurling themselves against the defenders until the last of them fell.

Cassandra knelt over the Knight-Captain. “He’s still alive.” She pondered for a moment. “We should take him back to Haven with us, for interrogation and judgment.”

Rory wondered why she looked their way, then realized she was waiting for their word. “Yes,” they agreed. “But first we need to figure out what’s happened here.”

Ser Barris groaned in disgust. He had removed the helmet from another of the fallen. “Look, some foul corruption has come upon him.” Rory saw veins of bright red snaked across the templar’s face, the flesh mottled and seemingly putrefied, and had to look away quickly. They put a hand over their face, trying to ward off the stench of death and think. Had red lyrium done this?

 “Answers must lie with the Lord Seeker,” Cassandra said grimly.“Barris, where would he be?”

“In the great hall,” came the answer. “Inward and upward.”

 

**Simon**

The plan went almost perfectly. Simon actually exulted in satisfaction as Alexius’ guards fell to the floor under the Inquisition spies’ hands.

And then the jeweled amulet in Alexius’ hand lit up with a sickly green glow. Simon knew that green too well, and his sense of victory twisted into dread. The light itself seemed to turn that sour, serpentine green, as green as the Breach.

Dorian shouted, “No!” and swung his staff to strike the amulet out of Alexius’ hand, but the air pulled apart nonetheless, rapidly opening into a rift. Wind was suddenly whipping at Simon’s face and hair, pulling at him. Simon found himself yanked off balance, jerked to the side as wind roared around him. He fought to keep his feet, but the pull was too strong. He was dragged in, colliding with Dorian, who a moment ago had been standing a few paces away, and together they fell.

Bull’s and Sera’s shouts of alarm rang in Simon’s ears, and then stopped, quite abruptly.

The air turned dank, and Simon fell onto wet and gritty stone in a torch-lit room. Pain ripped through his arm, taking his breath away.

He had no time to ask questions, as two guards in unfamiliar armor burst into the room, but they fell quickly under Dorian’s flame and Simon’s strikes. Simon tried to get his bearings while Dorian began to speculate about Alexius’ intentions. The mark still throbbed, deeply, sending pain shooting up his arm every few seconds.

“Aha!” Dorian exclaimed. “It’s not where, it’s when! Alexius used the amulet as a focus. It moved us through time!”

Through _time_. Simon’s gut clenched in dread. “Did we go forward in time, or back?” he demanded. “And how far?”

“Those are excellent questions,” Dorian said, still smiling, but clearly without answers. “Let’s look around, see where the rift took us. Or when. Then we can figure out how to get back. If we can.”

Simon did not like the sound of that _if_. “You have a plan to get us back, I hope?” Rory. He’d left Rory, and now he had no idea where — or rather, when — he was.

Dorian said brightly, “I have some thoughts on that. They’re lovely thoughts, like little jewels.”

Simon sent him a dark look. Dorian smiled back, dazzling in the dim torchlight. “Don’t worry. I’ll protect you.”

Simon huffed a little at that. He didn’t need protecting. He took the lead in any case, as they left the watery cell they’d landed in. Dorian fell into step just behind him, seemingly confident and comfortable.

They met guards more than once. Between them, Simon and Dorian made quick work of them. It felt familiar enough; Simon was used to fighting alongside Rory, and the flare of magical fire or lightning coming from behind him didn’t make him flinch. Something about Dorian’s magic felt different, though. Perhaps there was a different rhythm to how he used his staff, and he surely seemed more jubilant each time they defeated a pair of guards.

Dorian talked more than Rory, as well. Simon didn’t understand more than a quarter of what he was talking about — confluences of magical energies, time knots — but Dorian seemed to be thinking aloud more than anything else, and rarely expected a response. The sound of his voice was rather comforting, in fact. It gave Simon some hope that Dorian could actually unravel this puzzle and get them home. Rory had been right, after all: the time magic was more unpredictable than Simon had realized. He was adding up the list of things to add to his apology, when he saw Rory again: _I’m sorry I left. You were right about the magic. I didn’t know what I was doing. I’m so sorry, about everything_.

He still didn’t regret trusting Dorian, though. Dorian had proven himself already, as far as Simon was concerned, and now Simon had to rely on him entirely if they were going to get out of this alive and back where they belonged, and find out what had happened to the others.

The ache in Simon’s arm remained as they moved. The pain throbbed not just in his hand, but all the way up his arm. It felt as though a dozen fishhooks had dug into the mark, pulling, even tearing, all in different directions. Simon tried not to show it, but the sensation was fouling up his sense of direction. More than once he found himself turning the wrong way down a passage, or even bumping into a wall as his steps veered off course.

Rifts, he realized suddenly. More than one. Several, all of them close enough to affect the mark.

He stopped walking so suddenly that Dorian bumped into him. “Sorry,” Simon said quickly.

“Something the matter? Other than the obvious, I should say.”

It took Simon a moment to overcome the dread churning in his stomach and answer. “Rifts,” he said. “Rather a lot of them.” He held up his left hand. “I’ve only half the mark. Without my twin, I can’t close them.”

Dorian’s smile faltered for a second. “Ah,” he said. “Let’s hope we can... go around them, then, shall we?”

“Let’s hope,” Simon said. “We’ll be knee-deep in demons if we can’t.”

#

Simon couldn’t stop staring at the Grand Enchanter, twisted and trapped as she was in a crystal of red lyrium. But he started in surprise when Fiona told them the date. “We have to go back,” he said, his heart beating faster with useless energy. He wanted to move, hit something, anything. Dorian was saying something about Alexius’ amulet, but Simon barely heard him. He’d abandoned Rory like a coward with bitter words simmering between them, and then vanished for two whole years? Rory never even would have known what had happened to him. They must think Simon was dead. Even the sight of Fiona embedded in the red lyrium, crystals growing over and out of her skin, didn’t send such a sick, hollow feeling to Simon’s stomach.

“If we find this amulet, we can go back,” he said abruptly, cutting through Dorian’s musings. “Is that it?”

“I said _maybe_ ,” Dorian said. “The theory is sound, he must be using the amulet as a focus, but I’ll need to examine it, and it’ll take time to craft the spell.”

_Maybe_ was good enough, as far as Simon was concerned. “Let’s go, then,” he said sharply, and turned on his heel.

In the next block of cells, they found Sera and the Iron Bull. Fiona had spoken of Leliana’s capture, too, and a wild, improbable hope burst into Simon’s heart.

“Sera,” Simon said desperately as soon as they’d opened the locks, “have you seen Rory? Do you know if they captured them?”

She was already shaking her head as he trailed off. “Haven’t seen a peep of ‘em,” she said. “Been down here since the day you…” Her full mouth twisted. “Poof, disappeared.”

It was the same with Bull, who shook his head slowly, massive horns swaying from side to side. “Haven’t seen them since before you died, Boss.”

“I didn’t die,” Simon reminded him.

Bull shrugged heavy shoulders. “The Inquisition attacked this place for months. The Vints brought in a lot of prisoners, but I don’t know if Rory was one of them.”

Simon ground his teeth, but nodded. It wasn’t Bull’s fault he didn’t have the answers Simon wanted. It wasn’t anyone’s fault but Simon’s, to tell the truth.

Well. And Alexius’s, and the Elder One’s.

They ransacked the guard room and turned up an axe big enough for the Bull, and a bow and quiver, though no armor that would fit either one of them. Bull still hulked, broad-shouldered and towering over Simon, even though his bulk was reduced. He could, at least, still heft his axe, and even grinned when he cut his way through the next group of guards.

Simon could hardly look Bull or Sera in the eye. He’d been the one who led them into this disaster. They’d followed him, and they’d paid this price for it. On top of that, their eyes were disturbing: the irises darkened, the whites reddened, like looking into bloody pools. There was something wrong with their voices, too: their words rang hollow, with a certain grating crackle as if they’d been chewing on stones.

They _felt_ wrong, too; the Bull fell in at Simon’s right side as usual, with Simon covering his blind side, and Sera and Dorian at their backs, but the hairs on Simon’s neck seemed to rise. He could almost swear that some sort of reddish cloud followed them as they moved, drifting in the air with every breath.

Neither of them seemed eager to say much about what they’d suffered. They followed Simon much more quietly than he was used to. Dorian filled the silence, either with questions that Sera sniffed at and Bull answered in monosyllables, or with speculation and theory that rolled right off Simon.

They should progress upward, Simon knew; they should locate Leliana, as Fiona had urged them, and then find Alexius and his damned amulet and go back so that all this rot would never come to pass.

But Simon couldn’t help wanting to search every block of cells, even though it seemed like the slimmest of hopes that Rory might be there. No one objected, though Simon thought Sera and Bull exchanged glances behind his back.

He had to admit he was probably wasting time. This would be the last one, Simon decided as he rattled down yet another set of stairs to yet another group of cold and dirty cells. He took a cursory glance around, preparing to turn and climb the stairs again.

But something moved in the last cell on the left. Someone. Simon stopped in his tracks, dreading what he might find even as he hoped for it. He clenched his fist as his hand throbbed, a deep ache.

A matching glow flared green inside the cell. Simon took a few hesitant steps closer. “Rory?”

The figure within stirred and drew nearer the bars, pushing unkempt hair away from a gaunt face. “Simon? No, it can’t be. Simon died.”

“I didn’t,” Simon burst out, closing the distance at a run. He reached between the bars and their hands clasped, even while he fumbled the key into the lock with his other hand. The grasp was familiar, though Rory’s hand felt too thin, and Simon’s heart pounded with a mix of grief and guilt and fury. “I promise it’s really me. I’m here.”

 

**Rory**

Rory staggered through the fog. Where were they – in the Fade, in their own mind, in some nightmare creation of this demon called Envy who’d pretended at being the Lord Seeker? It had taken on the forms of the leaders of the Inquisition, spoken as Josephine, Cullen, Leliana, Cassandra. Taunting Rory, but not out of sheer malice. It had some other goal, claiming to want to take Rory’s place.

_Why me? I’m no one. The Lord Seeker has – had? – infinitely more power and influence than I._

The demon’s voice echoed out of the fog. “I will show you.” It sounded more like Rory with every moment.

Rory stumbled through a door to find Simon standing on the far side, apparently listening to two soldiers giving a report.“Simon!” Rory cried.

Simon made no response. Rory saw their own reflection lurking behind their twin. No, not their reflection - the Envy demon cloaking itself in Rory’s form. Just another trick, then. Simon wasn’t here, he was off trying to save the rebel mages from themselves.

“Our enemies have surrendered unconditionally, and we are now as powerful as any kingdom in Thedas,” the soldier told the false Simon.

“Good, good,” Simon answered, sounding uncertain.

“Our reach begins to approach our ambition,” the false Rory said in Simon’s ear. “But we must have more. Call up more soldiers!”

“I’d never say that,” Rory protested. “Simon would never believe it was me.”

“Oh?” The false Rory turned to face them.

_It’s trying to understand me_ , Rory realized _. I can’t let it learn more_. _I have to stay silent_.

The scene before them grew muddy, dissolved, reformed into a grand throne room. Simon sat on the throne, not-Rory at his right hand. Simon turned to the figure at his side. “You’re not really Rory. What are you?”

“I took Rory’s place at Therinfal,” Envy purred. “I knew you needed a stronger-willed advisor.”

“I should have known as soon as Rory stopped sniveling about the poor templars,” Simon said with a sneer. “I should be angry, but – it’s such a relief not to have a partner, not a burden I’m looking after all the time.”

“No!” Rory yelled, forgetting their resolution. “Simon would never…” But Rory had flung invective at Simon, after Simon had thrown away his entire life to protect them. Could Rory expect Simon to stand by them after that?

Envy turned to face Rory, Simon fading into the background. “You aren’t certain of that. Interesting…”

Rory shook their head violently from side to side. “You don’t know anything about me, demon! You don’t know anything about my brother!”

A smile spread across not-Rory’s face. “But I do. I know more by the moment. You fear so that he will turn on you.” Its brow furrowed. “Has turned on you? Even better.”

Rory’s head ached, as if the demon was battering against the doors of their mind. They searched for a core of certainty. Could they count on Simon? He had been angrier than Rory had ever seen him. What if he wouldn’t forgive Rory? What if he would just as soon be free of his useless twin?

Cassandra?Vivienne? They had stood up for Rory, but their ultimate concern was the Inquisition. If the Inquisition proved better off without Rory, would they shed any tears?

Rory themself? That seemed the most unlikely possibility of all. They were too weak, too helpless alone here. Unable to fend off this demon, to aid the templars, never mind to seal the Breach…

Envy’s smile was broader. “Yes. Give all that you are to me, and the pain will be over.”

Rory felt themselves growing numb, limbs and thoughts both moving sluggishly. They tried desperately to focus. They had survived Blayne and their Harrowing. Surely they could fight off this demon as well? They couldn’t quite believe it. The scene around them was growing misty, faded.

A voice spoke from the mists, soft but compelling. “You’re hurting, helpless, hasty. What happens to the hammer when there are no more nails?”

Envy snarled. “What are you? Get out! This is my place!”

The pressure in Rory’s head eased, and their surroundings seemed to solidify. They shook their head, trying to clear it. Who – or what – had spoken? Was it just another of Envy’s tricks? But Rory felt sure that they would have been lost if the new voice had not distracted the demon.

“You feel weakened, woeful.” The gentle voice seemed to come from all around. “Envy’s work, within and without you, but the ground under you is firmer than you think.”

“SILENCE!” Envy thundered. It turned its full attention to Rory, an inhuman grimace marring its imitation of Rory’s face. “The Elder One will have you, and I will walk forth in your flesh. No one will miss you. Your brother surely won’t. He’ll have me.”

The pounding at Rory’s temples was worse than before. They staggered back, flailing for purchase where they remembered a wall. Their fingertips sank into it as if it were made of mud.

The voice spoke again. “No.” A calm certainty lay behind the word. As Rory heard it, their fingers found a hold along the wall and gripped tight. “He stood between you and bullies, beatings, brutes. He will not stand aside for Envy.”

Envy still beat against Rory’s skull, but their arms and legs felt strong again, and the ground beneath them was solid. They took a step forward towards the demon, then one more. “You know nothing, Envy! Simon may be angry with me –may never forgive me – but if you try to displace me, he’ll kill you.”

“You think so?” Envy roared. “Consider this…”

Again, the screen grew misty, dissolved, and reformed, Simon once again upon the throne, turning toward the figure of Envy beside him, but this time Simon’s hand rested on the hilt of his sword. “You’re not Rory,” he said suspiciously.“What have you done to him?”

But Envy’s face was changing, becoming Simon’s, and he slipped a knife between the first Simon’s ribs. Simon crumpled onto the throne.Aflood of red stained its cushions and the floor below it. Rory lunged forward with a scream, but there was nothing there but mist. Envy’s voice came from somewhere ahead: “If I can’t be the power behind the throne, I will become the power upon it.”

Rory forgot about their fear. Their mouth tasted of blood - they must have bitten their lip when they lunged forward. It tasted good, solid and real. They reached for the power within them, hands tracing patterns they couldn’t remember learning, and a sword forged of flame burst from their hands.

“If you push, Envy makes mistakes. Keep pushing forward,” said the other voice. Rory wasn’t concerned with who or what it was, not anymore. They were set on finding Envy and making it regret what it had shown Rory. By the Maker, the demon was not going to have the chance to hurt Simon.


End file.
